Broken Toy
by gwenweybourne
Summary: Jim Moriarty likes to play with his toys before he breaks them. Sherlock/Moriarty and some Johnlock. SLASH. Rated M for Moriarty: general insanity, manipulation, violence. Post-Hound, pre-Reichenbach.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Characters do not belong to me. Pure fanciful fiction.**

Jim Moriarty pushed his feet against the floor and sailed across his office as the wheels on his rich, soft, leather chair rolled smoothly along the polished wood floors. "Wheeeee …" he trilled softly to himself. He stuck out a foot to stop his trajectory and eased into a slow spin, looking at the photographs as he did so. The latest surveillance photos of his toy. The brightest and prettiest piece in his game. His solution to the final problem.

As a child, Jim was the sort of little boy who broke his toys. It wasn't because he wanted to know how they worked (thought that was sometimes an additional bonus) or that he played with them too hard. No, he broke his toys because he always felt compelled to see how much they could take before they fell to pieces. Everything had a breaking point. And so did everyone. When his toys broke, his parents bought him new ones. They'd broken, too, learning it was easier to just give in to his whims rather than face his wrath if they refused. Toys were always for sale. Even the ones that weren't. Everything had a price. And so did everyone. Jim considered these to be among the most important lessons everyone should learn. Only he had learned them best. Well, him and maybe one other person.

Sherlock. Gorgeous, scrumptious Sherlock Holmes. If Jim were capable of feeling, really feeling actual emotions, he would feel genuine regret at having to destroy such a magnificent creature as Sherlock. But since he didn't, the regret manifested itself as vague disappointment, because it had been this way for as long as he could remember. Everything was dull. Everything was boring. The world was simple — so frighteningly simple. Jim scoured it for any kind of distraction or challenge to temporarily lift the ennui. But inevitably anything or anyone he found who could actually pose a challenge to him, anyone who seemed even remotely able to rise (or lower, depending if you were on the side of the angels or the devil) to Jim's level usually also meant they were a threat to Jim's way of life. Which meant they had to be destroyed. He would brook no rivals and certainly no one who wished to impede him. Sherlock had to be stopped and so he would be. Oh, but then everything would be so dull again. Boring, boring, blah, blah-de-blah.

But goodness gracious, he was so thankful for that phone call at the pool, though. Thank goodness for that saucy little harlot, Irene. Saved him from blowing his wad there. Imagine — blowing Sherlock to bits or filling him full of bullets when there was still so much fun to be had! If Jim ever had to identify one of his own character flaws (not that he ever would, and anyone who dared to ask would find their jaw shattered before attempting another such question), he would say impatience.

Oh, he could be patient. He had trained himself to be. Every plan needed to be orchestrated and carried out in its own due course. Rushing was not an option. And he enjoyed savouring the results, so sticky-sweet and rich and filling. But it certainly wasn't his nature. Oh, he'd been an impetuous youth once. Whether it was burning ants with a magnifying glass, or finding out how much pressure it took to cut off air to his puppy's windpipe (not much at all, disappointing, but not surprising), it had been hard to control his impulses. But as he got older, he learned from his mistakes. Rushing during a plan resulted in mistakes and then mistakes resulted in messes and messes needed to be cleaned up and Jim prided himself on keeping distant from the messes. The problem with the messes is that they tended to draw him in. If a plan deviated from its course it usually resulted in a phone call, which triggered a web of communications that eventually reached him and, sigh, the panicky voices on the phone and the simpering, "We don't know what went wrong, Mr. Moriarty, it all happened so fast." Like a pathetic little script, only the words got changed around sometimes. Dull. Time to buy more bullets.

So he didn't rush. If he took his time and choreographed every step of the dance, he got the desired results. But Sherlock made him want to rush. He was Jim's best and most beautiful toy — just begging to be broken. His very existence made Jim salivate, made his teeth ache, like he needed to rip a piece right off the detective and feel the blood run hot down his chin. Oh, Sherlock. So tempting and so infuriating. His devotion to his little pet. The army doctor. So disappointing that Sherlock had come to need something so banal. The funny little man with his ordinary little mind and fuzzy little jumpers. He really was quite adorable, though. Jim really had to restrain himself the first time he snatched away Sherlock's plaything. Had his men dress him up in explosives and coloured wire and oh, it was so delightful! It was all he could do not to send the order to have the doctor strut up and down as if he were on a fashion runway. _I'm a model, you know what I mean, and I do my little turn on the catwalk …_

Jim giggled to himself. He should have done that. He really should have. Maybe he could again. It had been a fun game, in any case. Smelling John's fear, and the brief moment of confusion on Sherlock's face when for a moment — just a _teensy_ moment — he wondered if he'd been had by the doctor. Laughable. Supposedly no one could put one over Sherlock and Jim had done it effortlessly. Boring. In the end it was all so boring.

But he was glad he had allowed the detective to live. Because he'd had so much more time to learn about him. Oh, he'd learned so very much. Catching the pearls of wisdom, one by one, as they dropped from the mouth of Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock's story. Every childhood bump and scrape, every adolescent humiliation, every misstep and triumph. He had it all. In return he'd fed the fatter Holmes full of nutritious bullshit. Nothing useful, but all delivered in a way to make it seem utterly salient. He'd been released from custody and immediately he'd begun to plan.

Because, sadly, Sherlock did have to die soon. There was no escaping that. The wheels were already set in motion, but Sherlock didn't know that yet. No, but the master plan had been enacted. All of the cogs were working together in perfect harmony; he could almost set it to music. Like in the Bugs Bunny cartoons, that marvellous song, "Powerhouse." Jim loved that one. Not as much as the classical odes, but there was an energetic, workman-like quality to it. And Jim considered himself to be quite the powerhouse, oh yes. _Do-do-dooo-do-leetle-lee-do-dooo …_

He had time and energy to devote himself to another project, so he decided that he wanted to enjoy Sherlock for some of the time that remained before he was dismantled and crushed. The pristine virgin, so untouched in so many ways. Unused and fresh. Would be such a shame to see that go to waste. No, when Sherlock met his end, he would know what it was like to be used, to be possessed, and owned. He would have knowledge that had otherwise been denied to him, or that he'd been too stubborn to accrue himself. Unless he and the doctor … nawww.

Jim smacked his gum and chuckled aloud, swinging two well-shod feet up onto his desk while he played with his phone. Sherlock and the little doctor? Oh, sure, he'd seen the adorable puppy-love devotion between the two. Their willingness to die for one another, how _touching_. But he rather doubted that John Watson had even the first clue as to what a man like Sherlock Holmes really and truly needed. Important to make the distinction between _need_ and _want_. Sherlock would certainly not want Jim to open his mind in the way he was planning to, but oh, he certainly needed it. And Jim would enjoy himself in uncovering that need. Grabbing it by the throat and pulling it out of the darkness to writhe and scream in the light.

_Daddy's coming to get you … nowhere left to hide. Nowhere in the world is safe for you once I've decided that you are mine_.

Watson was the key. Jim was loath to repeat himself, but the fact remained that there were few things that could be used as a bargaining chip and/or manipulation tool with Sherlock Holmes. He supposed he could shake it up and snatch up the old crone who kept their house or perhaps that delectable Lestrade …

_You could have them both_, said the dark voice that had been talking to him for as long as he could remember.

_Both? Oooh, how decadent. Do I dare? No, I couldn't_.

_Sure you could. You want them._

_Of course I want them. But no, I need to keep this streamlined. Besides, who will I amuse myself with once Sherlock is dead? I should save the detective inspector. For dessert._

_If you say so._

It would be John. It had to be. Jim had witnessed enough to know that nothing got results out of Sherlock as quickly as a threat to his precious pet. Jim swept his thumb over the phone and blew a bubble as he started setting his plan in motion. It was like architecture. Or poetry. It was art. One had to have a knack for it and Jim was a master.


	2. Chapter 2

Jim lounged on the bed, waiting patiently. Any minute now. He glanced idly over the computer monitor on the desk, making sure the scene was properly set. It was like the beginning of a play and all the players were present except for his co-star. Jim had chosen the location carefully. Just remote enough, untraceable when all was said and done. The house's owners had little recourse but to vacate for the length of time that Jim required. The bedroom was tastefully decorated, but spare. Very little that could be used as a weapon against him, but Sherlock would quickly learn that course of action would not be in his, or John's, best interests.

Jim yawned and angled his head up, taking a deep breath and spitting his gum out as far as it would go. The projectile shot from his lips and rebounded off the wall into the corner.

"Bull's eye," he intoned dully.

Ugh, this was boring. So boring. He wanted to play and he wanted to play now!

_Patience._

_Shut up, I know. He's on his way._

_Are you sure this is what you want? To sully your prize?_

_I'm not sullying him. I'm like a cat, batting an injured bird around. Playing with my prey before I put it out of its misery. He's already dead, he just doesn't know it yet. Let me have my fun._

_As long as I get to have some fun, too._

_Don't you always?_

_So far so good._

Jim grunted in irritation and rubbed his hand over his crotch. He felt a sudden surge in his system and knew the time was nigh. Moments later, he heard angry inquiries delivered in a deep, mellow baritone voice and the gentle click of handcuffs being released.

"Show-time," he drawled, leaning back into the pillows as the door opened and Sherlock was shoved inside. The door clicked and locked behind them. There was a man outside, but he wasn't really necessary. Just a bit of show for the sleuth.

Sherlock's clothing was rumpled from struggling and his hair was mussed from the recently removed blindfold, but his expression was impassive as always, his hands clasped behind his back.

"Moriarty."

Jim clucked his tongue. "Sherlock. _Jim_. Please. No need for formalities here in the boudoir." He smiled faintly as he watched his prize. Sherlock was doing his thing, his charming little thing where he was looking at everything and figuring out everything. Or nothing. It didn't really matter at this point.

But when Sherlock saw the computer monitor, his expression changed. Jim watched, fascinated, as the mask dropped for a nanosecond as Sherlock realized what he was seeing.

John Watson. Handcuffed to a chair. The chair was bolted to the floor. He was blindfolded and gagged.

"John," murmured Sherlock. He turned sharply to confront Jim. "Where is he? Is he all right?"

Jim smiled. "First question: dull. You're better than that. Second question: he's fine. So far. You really need to keep him on a tighter leash. This is the SECOND time I've done this. And I hear your brother picks him up all the time. It's too easy!"

"How do I —"

Jim rolled his eyes. "Yes, yes, how do you know that you're really seeing him and not some old tape on a loop while he bleeds out in another room, YAWN." He smirked at Sherlock, then raised the volume of his voice. "What's up, Doc? Guess who's here? Everyone's faaaaavourite consulting detective, yay!"

On the screen, John visibly stiffened and jerked his head, as if trying to figure out the direction of the sound.

Sherlock blinked. "He can hear us? John!" He barked the doctor's name sharply. "John, if you can hear me, stamp your left foot once."

John lifted his foot and there was an audible _thunk_ as it hit the floor. Sherlock stared hard at the screen, taking in as many details as he could. There was at least one other man in the room, but only the bottom half of him could be seen. The room was spare and overly bright. No windows. The basement. Unless there were outbuilding on the property. The camera was zoomed in so John was virtually the only figure visible. It was close enough that Sherlock didn't have to ask if it was a cleverly disguised decoy.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock demanded, concern edging his voice.

Jim wiggled his toes with glee.

John made an angry muffled noise around his gag and stomped his foot defiantly.

"How adorable!" Jim exclaimed. "It's like those trained horses at the circus who can do math. Clopping their hooves to do sums. Delightful." And then, just as suddenly, his expression shifted. The dark voice wanted its say. "This is boring, Sherlock. Stop mooning over your pet and start asking. The. Right. QUESTIONS!"

Sherlock turned to face him again. "Why am I here?"

Jim nodded in approval. "Better, better."

"We're not here so you can kill us," Sherlock murmured. "This is too simple and you enjoy the game. This — kidnapping and spiriting us away into the country. It's so —"

"Pedestrian?" Jim finished the sentence, sliding off the bed to his feet and moving close to Sherlock.

"Yes."

"True, too true. And …?"

"You don't want John. You just want me. It's always been me."

Jim batted his eyelashes. "Pitter-patter goes my heart!"

"Yet you're seemingly unarmed. I could …" And in a flash, Sherlock's hands closed around Jim's throat and he smashed him up against the wall.

Jim choked and any struggling he did was solely an automated survival response, but he snapped his fingers and his face contorted in a hideous grin as an even more unpleasant sound came from the speakers in the computer. Sherlock whipped his head around and with horror saw that the other man on camera had wrapped his hands around John's throat and was choking him mercilessly. Helpless to resist, John thrashed uselessly, struggling for air, the metal of the cuffs digging hard into tender flesh. Sherlock looked back, stared at his own hands and then dropped them away from Jim's throat. He looked back and almost immediately the man released John, who choked and gasped, sagging forward.

Sherlock looked back once again at Jim, who was rubbing his throat and still grinning. "Ah," he said in his trademark monotone. "You caught on. Gold star for Sherlock."

"It's why you're unarmed. Anything I do to you —"

"Gets done to John," Jim finished. "Lights, camera, action. Wired for sound. So you'll want to be extra, super nice to me."

"You snapped your fingers. Why?"

Jim shrugged and smiled flirtatiously. "Maybe I want you to do certain things to me. Call it a safe word. And …" he waggled his forefinger in Sherlock's face. "You can break my fingers, but I'd recommend you don't. There are other codes I have and my boys are well trained. Besides, you'll be happy for my skilled fingers later. Not to mention broken hands would really put a crimp in your John's blogging and surgical abilities. And I don't have to explain that if you leave this room without my permission, ol' Doc will be dead by the time you find him."

Sherlock nodded his understanding and fixed Jim with an imperious look. "You said _later_. What, pray tell, comes later?"

Jim bit his lip and grinned. "You. Then me. But you first, I insist. You are my guest and it will be your first time with a helping hand."


	3. Chapter 3

"What do you mean by that?" Sherlock's voice was steely and it sent a thrill through Jim's body. Playing dumb? Maybe a little, but it was likely that Sherlock truly didn't understand what Jim was getting at and that just made it all the more delicious.

He slid his hands into his pockets and looked up at the detective from under long eyelashes, smirking. "Our mutual friend — Ms. Adler — did she ever tell you about the nickname I have for you?"

Sherlock's mouth tightened.

"Say it, Sherlock. Do it for Daddy."

Sherlock exhaled impatiently through his nose. "The Virgin."

Jim's smirk morphed into a deadly smile. "Well, after we're done here, I won't able to call you that anymore."

Sherlock frowned. "You mean …"

"Yes."

"You want to have sex … with me."

"Correction," said Jim, holding up his index finger. "I want to be the first person to have sex with you. I like new things. Unused." He dragged a finger along Sherlock's sleeve and pretended to inspect it for dirt, rubbing the pads of thumb and forefinger together. "Clean."

"Don't touch me."

"Oh, I'll be touching you all I like. And more." Jim sidled behind Sherlock and reached up, gripping his shoulders. Sherlock flinched, but did not shift away. "Take off your coat," drawled Jim. "Stay awhile." He slid the coat off Sherlock's shoulders, down his arms, and off, before carelessly tossing it in a corner.

"It won't be sex," said Sherlock tightly. "It will be rape. Is that what you want? If you intend to let John's life hang in the balance, then you can do what you like to me, but do not confuse that with consent. Or that I will willingly participate in my own assault."

"Nawwwww," said Jim, drawing out the syllable. He still stood behind Sherlock, his breath warm on the detective's neck. Sherlock made to turn around, but Jim caught his shoulders, holding him still. "Stay right there, my sweet," Jim murmured. "Daddy's going to tell you a little story. And I want you to stand still and listen. Because — and listen carefully to this part — I am going to make you want this. Because I know you need it. And I want you to have it before I kill you — which will be soon, by the way. Just soze you know."

"Oh, this is for _my_ benefit?" spat Sherlock in disgust.

Jim laughed. "Oh no, that's just the nice spin you can put on it. I'm going to fuck the shit out of you, Sherlock. And the best part of is that you're going to love it. You just don't know it yet. You are going to die, no doubt, but not tonight. A man as delicious as yourself should not die a virgin. It's just wrong. Speaking as a man who lives for wrong."

"What makes you think you can make me want you? I've never wanted anyone."

"Lies, lies, lies," Jim sing-songed. "You want to know how I know that? Because we're the same, Sherlock."

"We are not."

"We are." Jim's voice took on a more dangerous tone for a moment. He drew his fingers over Sherlock's shoulders and down his back, tracing around his shoulder blades. "But unlike me, you've filed it all away in a little box somewhere in that huge mind of yours. Every dirty thought, every desire, every animal longing you've ever had. But it's there. And I'm going to find it."

"Take your best shot," said Sherlock disdainfully.

Jim rested his cheek against Sherlock's shoulder. "Y'know, Sherlock. It's really such a shame that we didn't meet sooner. When we were younger, and you were more, um, let's say … changeable? We could have made such a team. Nothing would have stopped us." He tugged at Sherlock's jacket and slid that off, as well, so the sleuth was down to his button-down shirt.

"A love story for the ages," said Sherlock sarcastically.

Jim's mouth was very close to Sherlock's ear. "Don't you think we were born in the wrong time?" he asked, breath hot against the detective's neck, his hands sliding down the sides of Sherlock's body. Sherlock was still rigid under his touch, but he felt the slightest shiver.

"What do you mean?" A slight catch in his voice.

"I mean," Jim's hands tightened around Sherlock's slender hips, the sharp bones fitting into the hollows of his palms, "what a terribly dull time we live in. Democracy, bah. We the People, equal representation for all, a future fair for all, kumbaya, my lord. _Ugh_. You and I, Sherlock, we were born for different times. We would have been kings, emperors, despots. Making decisions for the mindless masses too stupid to do it for themselves. Our decrees as law. Heads on pikes if we are disobeyed. Can't you imagine it?" His voice was slow and thick as he drew his hands up the front of Sherlock's torso, feeling lean muscle working under his fingertips. "In Roman times, we would have made Caligula blush. Fuck Nero, it would have been you fiddling as Rome burned. And it would burn because we wanted it to. All that power. Doesn't it make you hard thinking about it?"

"No." The answer was flat and resistant.

"Oh, but your nipples are hard, that's a start!" Jim's thumb flicked over a hard nub of flesh beneath the thin fabric of Sherlock's shirt.

Sherlock ground his teeth.

Jim shrugged. "Not into the Romans? Pity. You look so sexy in a toga. How about cowboys? Yee _hawww_." His lips were almost brushing Sherlock's neck. His fingers nimbly worked open the first button of Sherlock's shirt, then moved to the next. "The wild West. Just as lawless. People made it up as they go along. I think I would have liked it back then." He opened the shirt completely and slid his warm hands up Sherlock's bared torso at the same he pressed his hips forward against Sherlock's ass, letting him feel his hard-on. "Baby, I look _hot_ in a pair of chaps. Maybe I'll show you sometime."

Sherlock let out a shuddery breath and then groaned audibly in spite of himself when Jim bit his neck and dragged his fingernails hard up his torso.

"Don't worry," Jim murmured sweetly, licking the bite mark with the tip of his tongue. "No blood. Yet. The point I was making is," he pinched Sherlock's nipples harder, causing the other man to hiss softly, "I know you, Sherlock. We're the same animal, you and I. And so I know what you need. Far more than your housepet." He released his grasp and walked around to get a look at Sherlock from the front.

The detective's cheeks were flushed and there were eight angry pink marks streaking up his chest. Marked. Jim liked that. He brazenly reached up and brushed his hand over Sherlock's crotch, causing the other man to lurch back.

"You're hard as a rock. Thought so," he said, in an almost bored tone, reaching to pluck up one of Sherlock's wrists, unbuttoning his shirt cuff almost tenderly.

"My body responded to a stimulus. It hardly indicates rampant desire," said Sherlock archly. He wasn't resisting being undressed, as he knew there was no point, as Jim had the power at any moment to cause harm to John. And maybe, just maybe, thought he wouldn't admit it to himself, he was finding this whole development extremely interesting. It was a forced seduction, but a seduction, nonetheless.

Jim shook his head a little, reaching to unbutton the other cuff. "No, the way I see it, Sherlock, I made your dick hard by biting and pinching you and jerking off your brain with visions of despotic power. Not by touching your dick. That's called getting off, darling heart."

Sherlock shrugged carelessly. "What do I know? I'm just The Virgin, yes?"

Jim made a disapproving _tsk-tsk_ sound, tugging Sherlock's shirt off in one quick motion and tossing it on the floor. "Don't play dumb, dearie. It's not becoming on a man of your calibre." He took a step back to admire Sherlock's form and let out a low whistle of appreciation. "And what calibre it is. What other secrets are you hiding beneath those ill-fitting suits? Not that you ever leave much to the imagination."

"Hardly ill-fitting," said Sherlock haughtily.

"Oh, are we bantering now? How fun." Jim stepped closer, invading Sherlock's space. "Your turn."

"For what?"

"Take something off me. Haven't you always wanted to peel off a layer and see what was underneath?" Jim spread his arms out and cocked his head with a smirk.

"We'll have to go a lot deeper than that," murmured Sherlock, but he complied and tugged Jim's jacket off his shoulders.

"Watch the Westwood …"

"My humble apologies," said Sherlock obsequiously, making a show of sliding the jacket off with exaggerated reverence and handing it to Jim, who took it with a small bow and laid it across a chair.

Jim straightened up again. "What's next? Choose anything. Shirt, sock, oh, the suspense is killing —"

His words were cut off when Sherlock said, "Tie!" and grabbed it sharply and jerking it hard, causing Jim's head snap to the side. It would have been a simple matter to choke the life out of the criminal using the silken garment, but Sherlock knew the rules of the game and stopped when the knot on the tie loosened.

Jim chuckled, a low, throaty sound, baring his teeth, eyes sparking with intrigue. "Well done, Sherlock. Well done. Still some life in you yet, sexy." He pried Sherlock's fingers off the tie and slipped it over his head, pausing and then easing it over Sherlock's head.

"I don't wear ties," the detective said petulantly.

"You do now," Jim intoned before wrapping the tie around his fingers and roughly jerking Sherlock forward so they were face to face and Jim captured the other man's lips in a slow, lecherous kiss that left Sherlock flustered, off-balance, and breathless.

"Continue," Jim instructed. Sherlock reached out and began to unbutton Jim's crisp, white shirt. His fingers tremoured ever so slightly and he cursed himself for it, just as Jim lapped it up.

Jim waited patiently and when Sherlock eased the shirt off his shoulders, he shrugged out of it and then laid it down across the chair on top of his jacket. He faced Sherlock squarely for a moment so the detective could get a look at him.

"Tell me, what have you deduced, detective?" he said slowly. He stood tall, shoulders back, confident in his body and not at all unnerved by Sherlock's steely gaze.

"You're vain, so you put work into maintaining your body."

Jim made a mock embarrassed face and held up one hand. "Guilty as charged!"

"But also you like the element of surprise. You rely on it to keep you safe. You have a slender build, but you are much stronger than you appear. You train this way on purpose."

"Good, good." Jim nodded approvingly.

"Likely in martial arts and other forms of hand-to-hand combat."

"Have you tried krav maga? So trendy these days, but so addictive!"

"You want me to be aware of this in case I have any further ideas of fighting you."

Jim shrugged, pouting briefly before slowly walking behind Sherlock again. "Don't you get tired of fighting, Sherlock? Everything is always such a struggle for you. I know, because I'm like you." He slipped his arms around the detective and dragged his hands over Sherlock's torso, pressing his own bare chest up against Sherlock's back, the sudden skin-to-skin contact causing them both to shiver. "Born into a world that has no place for us. I chose to make the world work for me, but you," he kissed Sherlock's shoulder tenderly, "you're always swimming against the current. 'Rage, rage, against the dying of the light …'"

"… 'Though wise men at their end know dark is right,'" Sherlock murmured, continuing the verse Jim had started, "'because their words had forked no lightning they do not go gentle into that good night.'"

Jim smiled against Sherlock's shoulder and moved up to kiss his neck. "Here you are, with this magnificent body and magnificent mind and you've been denying yourself the carnal pleasures all your life. And I think I know why."

"Do enlighten me," Sherlock remarked dryly.

Jim slid one hand down Sherlock's body, sliding over his lean, muscled chest and firm belly, then pausing to pop open the button on Sherlock's trousers and lower the zip. "Sex," Jim whispered hot into Sherlock's ear, "is like a kind of insanity."

Sherlock trembled in spite of himself as Jim's hand slid down into his pants.

Jim found Sherlock's cock — which was still mostly hard — and wrapped his fingers around it, causing the other man to bite back a moan.

"It fogs the brain, clouds judgment," Jim's voice was silky smooth as he fondled Sherlock, teasing him into full hardness. "Causing a person to make strange choices. To not care about consequences. Nothing else matters in the moment except _fucking_. Getting off. In spite of our big talk and fancy technology, we're still just animals, Sherlock. We rut and claw and scream just like the beasts."

"You …" Sherlock began, then had to pause to clear his throat and moisten his lips before trying again, attempting to resist being distracted by Jim expertly stroking his dick. "You want me to be as insane as you."

"Oh, heavens no!" Jim chuckled softly. "The world can barely handle one of me. And I'm rather protective of my place in this world. No, Sherlock, I just want to see what you're like when the animal takes over." He abruptly took his hand away and spun Sherlock around to face him before pushing him down on the bed. "So let's get to it, shall we …?"


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Very NC-17. Basically this is a hot hate-fuck between two men who are two sides of the same coin. Evenly matched and simply devastating together. **

Sherlock propped himself up on his elbows and stared hard at Jim. He was trying to look unaffected, but Jim knew better. The detective was completely out of his element and he knew it. Jim had to resist the urge to lick his lips because Sherlock looked so delectable laid out on the bed: all long limbs and firm muscle and that gorgeous alabaster skin. His nipples were hard and his trousers were half hitched down his hips; the outline of his erection clearly visible through his pants. He was clearly confused by the desire he was feeling. Jim just loved it when Sherlock was off-balance, it was so —

_Damn._

Sherlock's roving eyes had fixed back on the computer screen again and his attention was focused back on his imperilled pet. Ugh. Boner-killer.

"You're wondering how much he can hear, aren't you?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied quietly, watching John's still form on the screen.

Jim sighed and took a couple steps to his left and shoved the laptop aside so the screen wasn't visible. Its only purpose was to prove to Sherlock that John was contained and alive. The cameras and bugs installed in the room ensured that they could be seen and heard on the other end.

"He can hear enough. He knows what's happening. I want him to know. That I had you first."

"Why would that matter to him?"

Jim giggled, stepping back to the bed and picking up one of Sherlock's feet, making a soft "uh-uh-uh" sound of disapproval when Sherlock's leg stiffened and for a moment Jim wondered if the other man would dare kick him in the face and break his nose and/or teeth. Oh, John and Sherlock would both pay dearly for such an attack. But Sherlock remembered the rules in time and relented, allowing Jim to untie his shoe and slip it off, followed by the sock. Nothing sadder-looking than a naked man wearing black dress socks. Aesthetics were important and Jim didn't mind taking the time to make sure that things were done right.

"Oh, Sherlock. For someone so smart, you can be spectacularly stupid. Or I suppose 'ignorant' was the slightly sugar-coated word that John used in the blog, wasn't it?"

"Piss off."

"He's besotted with you. You could have had him six ways to Sunday by now. Convinced him to take what's right in front of him. Instead you allow him to continue to fool himself in dating all those boring girls. Isn't that right, Johnny boy?" Jim called out loudly.

"Don't be ridiculous."

"You're boring me," Jim growled, tugging off the second shoe a little more roughly.

"Jealous?"

Jim smirked. "Games, Sherlock," he droned, rolling his eyes, then tugging Sherlock's trousers the rest of the way off. "I make the rules, not you. You're just the participant. You dance when I tell you to, and now it's time to dance."

He slipped his fingers under the waistband of Sherlock's boxer-briefs and watched the other man's face. Sherlock's mouth was set in a grim line and his hands twitched, so desperate to reach out and push Jim away, prevent himself from being exposed and laid bare to the one man who wished him the most harm. Jim supposed that the "normal" people would feel rather monstrous about putting another person in this position, but Jim was not normal. He was the very embodiment of the monster everyone had living inside them. In fact, he relished Sherlock's discomfort. It made the act of possessing him all the more exciting.

"Don't be bashful," he teased, stretching the elastic and letting it snap back against Sherlock's waist before stretching it again and lifting it over Sherlock's cock and sliding his underwear off. "I've already held your dick in my hand, felt you get hard — we're past being shy at this point."

Sherlock let out a shaky breath through his nose and laid back on the bed, closing his eyes. Jim took the opportunity to get a good look at his prize. He whistled appreciatively. "Oh, Sherlock. You are a fine piece of work, indeed. I'm _so_ glad I decided to do this. God, what a waste if I'd just had you shot all those months ago."

Sherlock didn't respond. Oh, he was being stubborn now. Thinking he could turn himself off. Jim chuckled aloud at the absurdity of that idea. He slipped out of his trousers and pants, carefully folding them and laying them on the chair. He opened the bedside table drawer and Sherlock's eyes flickered open, curious at the new sound. Jim took out a bottle of lubricant and climbed up on the bed, straddling Sherlock's slender thighs. The detective blinked and looked up at him.

"Oh, you're back. That's good," said Jim, opening the bottle. "Didn't want you to miss this part."

Sherlock remained silent, but was unable to stifle a gasp when Jim wrapped a warm, slick hand around his flagging erection and began to stroke him. Jim _tsked_ softly. "All that talk of your and the doctor's unrequited situation was quite the turn-off, wasn't it?" He twisted his hand, then rubbed his thumb expertly over the tip of Sherlock's cock as it extended from the foreskin. Sherlock groaned, his hands fisting into the sheets.

"Yes," Jim murmured, his voice low and hypnotic. "I want you nice and hard, sexy." He switched hands and used the slicked-up one to touch himself, working his fingers around and into his arse, moaning softly as he did so.

Sherlock stared up at him questioningly.

Jim grinned. "Oh, sure, you thought I was going to throw you down and ream you, right? Quick and dirty like a nasty prison fuck. Really, Sherlock, I'm disappointed. You know that's not my style. For _shame_. I've been planning this for too long to have it go down quite like that. And I've been playing with myself for aaaages. Even had a good session this morning to make sure I'd be ready for you."

He pulled out his fingers and positioned himself quickly, sinking slowly down onto Sherlock's cock before the other man had even realized what was happening.

Sherlock let out a cry that was a mix of surprise, confusion, and, of course, unadulterated pleasure, as he sank deep into Jim's tight arse.

Jim groaned, his eyelids fluttering. "Fuck. Oh, Sherlock, I've been dreaming of this for soooo long, but fantasy never quite gives the full picture, does it? This, my pet, is _glorious_." He began to move, rocking slowly, working Sherlock in and out, squeezing him gently.

_Careful, now. Give him a good taste, but don't let him blow his load. Keep him sweet. Keep him hard. Keep him confused._

_Oh, but it's so bloody difficult. I just want to _eat_ him._

_Patience. You know how disappointed you'll be if you don't carry out the plan as we agreed._

_Yes. Yes. Patience._

Sherlock's back arched and he let out a shuddery groan as Jim rode him in long, deep strokes, his own body arching as he took Sherlock inside, angling his hips so the other man's cock hit him in all the places he liked.

"We fit so beautifully," Jim moaned. Indeed, they did. Sherlock's cock was the perfect length and girth for Jim's body. He felt full, but not uncomfortable, and when he angled his hips just so, the head brushed against his prostate, setting off fireworks behind his eyelids. "You were made for me, Sherlock. And I was made for you. Don't fight it …"

Sherlock moaned helplessly, his head tossing back and forth on the mattress and Jim felt him beginning to move, rocking his hips up, pushing in deeper, seeking more sensation and pleasure.

"Oh, John," Jim called out, rocking harder and faster. "You are missing out, let me tell you! He is just delicious. But I'm breaking him in for you real nicely. You're welcome!"

Suddenly he felt strong fingers clutch at his hips and he looked down and met Sherlock's gaze, which was alarming in its intensity. Clouded with lust, but determined at the same time.

"Don't," he warned, his breath coming fast.

"Don't _what_, darling?"

"Don't talk to him. This is about you and me. Focus on me." Sherlock paused for moment and then, with great difficulty, added, "Please."

"It's touching, it really is," grunted Jim. "Since you asked so very nicely, I will grant your wish. You're the one who interests me, after all."

He leaned down, still working his hips, feeling Sherlock's fingers digging into his flesh. He hoped for bruises — a souvenir of this triumph. Sherlock gazed up at him, the haze in his eyes lifting temporarily, curious. And then he groaned sharply when Jim heaved himself over to the side, grabbing Sherlock to bring him along. Exhibiting his secret strength in manoeuvring the detective's lanky frame so Jim was now on the bottom, his legs splayed, Sherlock still buried deep inside. Sherlock stilled, looking at Jim with confusion, his mind too foggy with arousal to understand this change of position.

"What are you gonna do, Sherlock?" Jim whispered, staring up into the sleuth's unearthly eyes. "You're in the driver's seat now." He rolled his hips slowly and clenched his muscles around Sherlock's cock, causing the other man to shudder and groan. "Well, kind of." Jim chuckled. "You can feel it, can't you? The urge. You wanna fuck. But you can stop right now if you want to. I'm not done with you yet, but this part can be over if you choose. Is that what you want?"

Sherlock gritted his teeth, his body trembling with need. A single drop of perspiration rolled down his jaw and dripped off his chin. Jim caught it with his tongue and grinned. "Fuck me, Sherlock," he sang softly, teasingly. "Fuck my tight arse. You wanna come, don't you? You need it soooo bad. C'mon … give it to me …"

He saw the conflict flicker behind eyes that were dark with lust and finally Sherlock let out a despairing growl and began to move. Jim let out a cry of triumph. "Yes, baby, oh yes … you glorious beast …"

Sherlock's thrusts were awkward and graceless at first, but he soon picked up the rhythm and was driving hard and deep. "Shut up," he growled. "Shut up …"

Jim rocked up hard to meet him. They snarled and grunted and rutted wildly, pushing and pulling at each other in a kind of primal madness. Jim raked his nails down Sherlock's back and Sherlock bit Jim on the neck, causing him to cry out in ecstasy. Even so, Jim — ever watchful — recognized when Sherlock was on the brink. Oh, he was so beautiful: sweaty and wild-eyed and desperate. Everything Jim hoped Sherlock would be once he let himself go. He drank in the sight, taking hold of the tie in one hand to drag Sherlock's head down, leaning up to kiss the other man's quivering lips tenderly before grabbing him hard by the throat with his other hand, his fingers digging expertly into the soft tissue on either side of his windpipe. Sherlock made a strangled sound of shock, his hips stuttering.

"Now _stop_." Jim's voice — the _other_ voice — was dark, deadly, and perfectly measured.

Sherlock struggled, his mind momentarily short-circuiting and disconnected from his body. His hungry body, which just wanted to _finish_. But the moment Jim felt Sherlock's cock slide in deep again, he tightened his grip and shook Sherlock, eliciting a strangled moan of pain from the other man. "Stop."

Sherlock obeyed. With great difficulty.

"Get your cock out of me." Jim barked the order, then released his grip and Sherlock pulled out, tumbling onto his back, gasping for air. His cock was still swollen hard, wet with lube, his expression simultaneously disoriented, angry, and relieved.

Jim sat up calmly, his breath still coming fast, but his thoughts were ordered. "Sorry," he droned, "I thought about letting you come. I _really_ did, but you know what orgasms are like — or maybe you don't, so let me tell you: it's like a fucking tranquilizer dart and you'd be all slow and flaccid and _boring_ and not nearly as compliant as you'll be when I keep you on the brink." He reaches out and closes his fist around Sherlock's penis, feeling the other man shudder as he stroked him achingly slowly. "And you are on the brink, aren't you? I like you like this."

"Fuck you."

Jim grinned. "Sex brings out the naughty words with you, doesn't it? Don't worry, gorgeous. You'll get your moment. But only when I say so. Now be a good boy for Daddy. Roll over and spread your legs for me …"


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Thanks for all the lovely reviews! I was nervous about posting this because it's pretty squicky and not a popular paring at all, but your reviews are so encouraging. And it was kind of a dick move to leave you on that cliffhanger ;-) So I'm updating quickly. Not sure this wee chapter is much better, but I thought we should check in with poor John and see how Sherlock's holding up.**

_John_

This was a nightmare. He needed it to be a nightmare so he could wake up in a cold sweat and realize this wasn't real. He wasn't tied up and helpless while listening to his best friend being sexually assaulted by a psychopathic killer. He'd already rubbed his wrists raw and bloody in his futile struggles against the handcuffs.

He didn't want to hear it. Any of it. But at the same time, the part of him that strove to protect Sherlock needed to hear it. Even if he couldn't do anything, he monitored Sherlock's sounds, listening for pain and discomfort. So he would know what he'd be dealing with when this was all over. One could never be certain with Moriarty, but John was cautiously optimistic that both he and Sherlock would make it out alive. The consulting criminal clearly had a larger plan for them that had yet to be revealed.

It was humiliating. All of it. The fact that Moriarty had kidnapped John again. Oh, John had fought against it. Viciously and he had a shiner to prove it, but it hadn't been enough to prevent Moriarty's goons from taking him. Bringing him to this room and depriving him of sight and speech and forcing him to listen to Moriarty's plan. To Sherlock's acquiescence. He was allowing Moriarty to have his way because he wanted to protect John. This was equal parts mortifying and deeply moving for the doctor. He was consumed with regret for what Sherlock was enduring on his behalf, but truly amazed that he meant that much to the detective.

It was humiliating when Moriarty spoke to him. While he and Sherlock were fucking. How Moriarty knew of John's desire for Sherlock when John had barely been able to admit it to himself. And Sherlock had even protected him from that. John was mortified to find himself aroused by some of the sounds Sherlock was making. The pleasured moans and gasps. Picturing what Sherlock looked like at that moment, only John wished it was him instead of Moriarty. He wanted to be the one to guide Sherlock through his first sexual experience and now that would never be.

One thing he was grateful for was that Moriarty seemed to have no intention of hurting Sherlock. And he was a little taken aback when he realized that Moriarty had given Sherlock control and Sherlock had chosen to continue. John could hear the squeak of the mattress and the pleasured moans, grunts, and animal snarls from the two men as they fucked hard and fast. John felt himself starting to get hard and his face flushed red with humiliation. He should NOT be getting off on this, but it was the only sensory stimulation he was receiving at the moment and the mental picture of Sherlock naked and undone in the throes of passion was incredibly compelling.

How would it change him? There was no possible way that Sherlock who John would see later would be the same Sherlock he'd seen this morning. He was learning things that could not be unlearned. He was being violated, though by the sounds of things, the lines were blurry on that one. John had long been aware of the strange connection between Moriarty and Sherlock. The grudging admiration and sexual undercurrent that both worried and intrigued John. That Moriarty would take it to this level was alarming, to say the least.

Suddenly, Sherlock made a choked sound, as if his airway was being compromised and Moriarty's voice turned low and dangerous. John stiffened and unconsciously fought against his bonds, not noticing as his wrists bled. I knew it. _He's going to hurt or kill him and there's not a damn thing I can do about it … he'll die because I was too thick to avoid this trap again …_

The choking sound stopped, but was replaced by something nearly as sinister. Sherlock's voice, soft and pleading. "No. Don't … please … stop …"

_Oh, Sherlock …_

* * *

><p><em>Sherlock<em>

He regretted the plea as soon as it came out of his mouth. He hadn't even realized he was saying the words, but when Moriarty spread him open and licked him there … the sensation so unbearably intimate, he heard himself begging his captor to stop.

Even though there was no chance of it stopping. Moriarty's response was to penetrate Sherlock with his tongue, which sent a spike of pleasure through Sherlock's traitorous body and he felt it in his cock, which hadn't been this hard ever in his life and he'd never maintained an erection for this long. Had never received this much physical stimulus. His mind and body were at war and that's just how Moriarty wanted it. A whimper escaped him as the other man fucked him slowly with his clever tongue, a slick finger beginning to probe him as well. He knew what was coming and he simply needed to endure it and then Moriarty would set John free. He also knew that part of the endurance would be acknowledging the pleasure he was feeling and the long-ignored need that Moriarty was satiating. He'd hated himself for not being able to resist Moriarty's dare. His body was thrumming with need — he could feel it pounding in his ears and when he'd seen stars when he thrust deeply into Moriarty's tight heat and then he couldn't stop moving, pushing hard into Moriarty again and again.

But of course that wouldn't be how the criminal wanted this to end. Of course not. Sherlock's submission had to be complete before the dance was over. And that's why he was splayed out on his stomach, legs spread wide, groaning as he was licked and stroked and fucked with expert fingers and tongue. His cock throbbed and leaked onto the bedspread. He needed release. He needed for this to be over. He needed …

When Moriarty finally knelt between his legs and pushed his slick, hard cock into Sherlock's virgin arse, Sherlock cried out sharply for several reasons: 1. Pain 2. Pleasure. 3. The realization that this was exactly what he needed.

Well, maybe not exactly. He found himself thinking of John. John's fingers curling around his hips. John burying himself up to the hilt inside Sherlock. John could have anything he wanted. Sherlock would give it to him. But Moriarty would always have to take. He would always have to fight for what he wanted. Sherlock mentally curled around that nugget of truth, knowing it's what would save him in the end. He held on to that and gave in to the needs of his much-neglected body.

"Tell me." Moriarty's voice was soft and sweet. He'd felt Sherlock's surrender. "Say it out loud."

"Fuck me."

"Say it right."

"Fuck me … Jim."

"Good boy. Don't worry. I'll give you exactly what you need."


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Warning: NC-17 to the max. M/M dub-con.**

**With apologies to Robert Service, who most definitely could not imagine his poem, "The Men That Don't Fit In" being used in this manner, but it's just too perfect for Jim and Sherlock (and in the public domain if anyone is wondering). And apologies for any mistakes in this chapter. I wanted to get this posted tonight since I won't have a chance to write for a few days. I'll go in and review and fix any typos as I find them. Thanks for reading and putting up with my cliffhangers. There is a bit more to come.**

* * *

><p>"<em>Fuck me … Jim."<em>

Oh, it was music to his ears. After he released Sherlock, Jim would go and fetch the recording. He would listen to that sentence over and over again. He'd make it his fucking ringtone. Sherlock begging for Jim's cock. Callooh-callay, it was Christmas.

Because he owned Sherlock in this moment. Less than an hour ago, Sherlock had attempted to choke the life out of Jim and now he was squirming as Jim tongued his arsehole and played with him, spreading his creamy white buttocks apart, and opening him up until Sherlock was ready for Jim's cock.

He groaned deeply as he pushed inside, fingers digging into Sherlock's hips, drinking in the other man's cry of surrender. God, he was so tight and hot — Jim bit his lip until he tasted blood in an effort not to come in five seconds. How embarrassing that would be. He'd waited so long for this and had been so very patient and he intended to enjoy his prize.

He kept still for a few moments, mostly to collect himself and also to take in the view. The ridges of Sherlock's spine visible under pale flesh, the muscles taut and worrying, like the muscles that were twitching anxiously around Jim's cock at the moment.

"Now we reach the denouement, Sherlock," he droned, drawing his hips back, then snapping them forward sharply so his thighs slapped Sherlock's backside, causing the other man to groan, his long fingers twisting in the bedspread. "It's been so fun to play, but now I have to break you." He began thrusting in a slow, lazy fashion. "Well, I have broken you already, in a sense. You surrendered to me. To your body. To sex. To insanity. You've been a very good boy, but I just have to break you a little more. Enjoy the ride, pet."

Sherlock snarled and rocked his hips back, squeezing around Jim's cock even though it would be painful for him to do so. Jim let out a breathless laugh mixed with a moan of pleasure. "Oh, Sherlock, I adore you so. You are so much more fun than the normal people." He tightened his grip on the other man's squirming hips and deepened his thrusts as the two fell into steady rhythm, as if they'd been lovers in another life. "You know why? Because it's no fun to win with them. It's too easy. And when they break, they get all pathetic about it. Whimpering and crying and begging for mercy. But that's not your style, sexy, no. I wouldn't want to see you that way, ever. It would break my heart."

"If you had one," Sherlock growled, the noise deepening into something far more primal as Jim changed the angle of his thrusts to hit him deep in the spot that made his eyes rolls back.

"Well, yeah, of course," Jim panted, looking down to watch his cock working in and out between Sherlock's pale, rounded arse cheeks. "A purely hypothetical construct, of course. The problem with winning is that the pleasure is so _fleeting_, don't you agree?"

Sherlock merely grunted in response.

"You know what I mean," Jim gasped, digging his fingers in hard as a wave of pleasure rolled over him. "You finish a case and it's all 'hurray I'm so clever' and then immediately you're bored and grasping for the next thing." He leaned over and licked at the beads of sweat rising up on Sherlock's arching back. "That's how I feel, too. And how I will feel when this is all over. But for once, Sherlock, the moment is really _lasting_."

"Do people normally talk this much during sex?" Sherlock groaned.

Jim chuckled and reached forward to grab a handful of Sherlock's hair, pulling his head back and causing the other man to gasp sharply. "Who said anything about normal?" He flung Sherlock's head down again and abruptly pulled out, grabbing the other man's hips and flipping him roughly onto his back.

Sherlock looked up at Jim, his chest heaving, eyes darkened with lust and loathing. It was a gorgeous sight to Jim and he slid his hands up under Sherlock's slender thighs and hooked his knees over his shoulders, leaning forward and sinking deeply inside Sherlock again, deeper than he'd been before. Sherlock moaned, his head tipped back on the mattress. Jim pinned Sherlock's wrists above his head and took him hard, angling deeply into Sherlock again and again, with no reprieve. Glittering black locked with crystal blue. Sherlock's cries grew more urgent and Jim wanted to consume them, leaning over more and capturing the other man's full lips in a deep kiss. Their tongues tasted and tangled and they groaned and snarled against each other's mouths, the kisses more akin to bites.

Extraordinary. He'd never experienced anything quite like this before. That was unexpected. Jim's dark, brooding good looks and borderline personality had drawn in lovers — the kind of self-destructive people who were drawn to such qualities — from a young age. He'd lost his virginity before he could drive a car and he'd had countless conquests since then. He was, after all, the man who knew how to get anything he wanted. Anyone.

But it was different with Sherlock. Maybe because it was the closest thing Jim had found to an equal match. Maybe because he didn't have to play a role — those were the most boring. When he was playing a character like Jim from IT, or the current role he was researching. Nice, sweet guys who made love in a nice, sweet way. Ugh. He'd honestly rather masturbate and was rather thankful when that sickly sweet Molly dumped "Jim" before he had to go through the motions.

And the ones who needed more convincing, well, they just didn't pose the kind of fun challenge that Sherlock did. More empty victories. But this was entirely different. This felt … right? It threw him momentarily off-balance and he cursed himself for it because there was Sherlock, staring up at him and he knew. Of course he knew.

"Hello, Jim," the detective whispered sweetly.

Jim merely let a reptilian smile spread across his face and he nodded his head slowly in acknowledgement before releasing Sherlock's hands and moving back up to a kneeling position, still keeping Sherlock's legs up over his shoulders.

"You're getting entirely too cocky," he droned. "No pun intended."

"Oh, _please_," Sherlock panted, his face contorting.

Jim grinned wider. "Yeah, okay, so maybe it was intended. Point being, seeing as you are _such_ a quick study, I think it's time for the endgame. I'm going to keep fucking this sweet arse of yours while I watch you wank yourself off."

Sherlock's cock was still hard from being rubbed against the mattress when he'd been positioned on his stomach. He paused for a long moment, but a hard push against his prostate from Jim's cock was enough motivation for him to reach for his erection and begin stroking. It was awkward at first — he didn't touch himself often and had rarely brought himself to orgasm.

Jim slowed his pace a bit — he was teetering dangerously close to the edge and he didn't want to lose it before he got to see the big show. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell Sherlock how very adorable and inept he was. So very charming, but that would likely take the wind out of the poor boy's sails and Jim wanted to come. Soon.

Sherlock's breathing came even faster and he found his rhythm, his long fingers stroking and twisting around the shaft of his cock, thumb teasing the head. Jim groaned, moving a little harder again, wanting to feel friction on his cock at the same time. He turned his head to the side and licked behind Sherlock's knee, causing the other man to moan softly in surprise. The head of his cock was wet and slick and he spread the moisture over the shaft.

"Come for me, Sherlock," Jim said softly, seductively. He rocked his hips and began hitting Sherlock's prostate in a steady rhythm, watching Sherlock's hand move faster and faster, his eyes rolling back, muscles tightening and … yes.

Sherlock let out a fierce, groaning cry as he climaxed, back arching as he shot hard over his fingers, stomach, belly, and chest, some even making it as far as his throat. He clenched down around Jim, who nearly roared in response and he began frantically pumping into Sherlock, thighs slapping hard against flesh and moments later his fingernails were digging hard enough into Sherlock's thighs to leave marks as he came, his head tipping back, his cries soundless in their intensity. Their movements slowed and then stopped and then there was completely silence except for the sound of laboured breathing, as neither man was capable of motion or speech.

Jim eventually leaned back on his knees, his head tipping back for a long moment, eyes fluttering shut as he basked in the flame of his climax. He couldn't remember the last time he had come so hard and was close to sharing that fact with Sherlock, but that would probably give the detective even more satisfaction and Jim didn't feel like sharing right then. No, he'd text that bit of information to Sherlock at a later date. The day he was to die, probably. That seemed appropriate.

He slowly pulled out and held Sherlock's knees apart for a few extra moments to enjoy the sight of his semen trickling out of the other man's stretched hole. Oh, that was very nice. Very nice, indeed. He released Sherlock's knees and the sleuth let them fall to the bed with a sigh.

"Oh, this is a nice look on you," murmured Jim, reaching over into the bedside table drawer once again. "Speechless and covered in spunk. Soooo dreamy."

Sherlock grunted in response and continued to breathe shakily, his eyes closing as he processed the sensations he was experiencing post-coitus. Then he heard a sound and smelled an achingly familiar scent. His eyes flew open when something brushed against his lips. Jim was leaning over him, smiling wickedly, eyes still glittering. He was holding the filter-end of a lit cigarette to Sherlock's lips. The detective's pale eyes flicked up at Jim and he debated for a brief moment before shrugging minutely and letting his lips close around the offering. He inhaled deeply, letting out a small groan of pleasure before nestling the cigarette between two fingers and extracting it, exhaling in a steady stream.

"You earned it, I reckon," Jim murmured. He lit one for himself, picked up an ashtray and a small folded towel on the table, and lay on his back next to Sherlock, dragging lazily on the cigarette, setting the ashtray on his bare stomach. "I won't tell Mycroft if you won't." He tossed the towel onto Sherlock's stomach.

Sherlock let out an amused snort in spite of himself, picking up the towel and wiping some of the mess off his torso.

They smoked in silence for a minute or two.

Sherlock blew a series of elegant smoke rings. "So … what happens now?" he asked.

Jim shrugged. "You put your clothes on and go home. Same car that brought you here. You'll need to wear your handcuffs and blindfold like a good boy. The doctor will be delivered separately. I prefer you two not start comparing notes until I'm farther away. This game is over." Jim stretched luxuriously, watching the two clouds of smoke intermingling. "You have to admit it, though."

"Admit what, exactly?"

"I know you, Sherlock," Jim drawled. "The only time you feel alive is when you're working on a case. But not this time. Because you're like me."

"As you're fond of repeating."

"We're the men who don't fit in." Jim took a drag and exhaled, before reciting: "'There's a race of men that don't fit in, a race that can't stay still; so they break the hearts of kith and kin, and they roam the world at will. They range the field and they rove the flood, and they climb the mountain's crest; theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood, and they don't know how to rest.'"

Sherlock chuckled softly, then looked over at Jim, countering: "'If they just went straight they might go far; they are strong and brave and true; but they're always tired of the things that are, and they want the strange and new.'"

Jim giggled with delight. Sherlock really was _so_ much fun.

Sherlock took another drag and continued through a plume of smoke. "'They say: "Could I find my proper groove, what a deep mark I would make!" So they chop and change, and each fresh move … is only a fresh mistake.'"

Jim clutched his cigarette between his lips and rewarded Sherlock with a slow clap. "A-plus in recitation, Mr. Holmes. I bet Teacher just looooved you."

"Robert Service. Dylan Thomas. A little predictable, don't you think?"

"I live a life of constant innovation, Sherlock. Forgive me for occasionally taking comfort in the classics."

Sherlock shrugged, reaching over to tap into the ashtray, looking over at Jim, abruptly changing the subject. "No condom, I noticed. But I don't imagine I have anything to be concerned about … a man as fastidious as yourself."

"Excellent deduction, as usual," Jim murmured, dragging deep. "I am extremely fussy about who I put my dick into. If I can't get my hands on a nice, fresh fuck like you, I use condoms, and I was tested before I had you. Not that it really matters. I'm going to kill you before any VD might get you."

"How comforting," said Sherlock dryly.

"As a matter of reputation, however, I can reliably inform you that I'm the cleanest thing that's ever been inside that virgin arse of yours. Though I'm sure the doctor will insist you undergo the full battery of tests."

"Of course."

"And you'll do it to placate him."

"Of course."

"But you already know you have nothing to worry about in that area."

"Of course."

"Boooooooring."

Sherlock took a final, deep drag of his cigarette and regarded the glowing tip for a moment, then turned and instead of stubbing it in the ashtray, he ground it hard into Jim's arm.

Jim screamed and involuntarily flailed, sending the ashtray flying. "FUCK!" The smell of singed flesh entered the air as Jim clasped a hand over the wound, staring daggers at Sherlock.

"That wasn't boring, was it?" Sherlock said mildly, then his expression turned hard. "Think of it as something to remember me by."

Jim glanced over at the laptop. "That was very stupid, Sherlock." He still held his lit cigarette and was looking at the expanse of Sherlock's naked flesh.

"Oh, John?" said Sherlock. "For god's sake, the man took a bullet through the shoulder in Afghanistan. I'm sure he could handle a cigarette burn. In fact, he'd welcome it knowing you already got yours. And what, are you going to burn me now? Tit for tat? I thought you already planned to burn the heart out of me." He stared hard at Jim, challenging him.

Jim's angry expression softened into a smirk. He looked at his cigarette and took a final drag and stubbed it out on the wall. "Nawww, you're too pretty."

"So are you. I could have burned your face instead."

"Very considerate." Jim took his hand away to inspect the burn, licking the pad of his thumb to wipe away any residual ash. "Nice souvenir, actually. I'll enjoy that. Sure you don't want to initial it? I can have a knife brought in."

Sherlock sat up. "I think I've satisfied your perverse needs enough for one night?"

Jim sat up as well, shifting his body to loll against the luxurious pillows on the bed. He inspected his nails idly. "Perverse? I didn't rip your clothes, I used lube, I made you come your brains out, and I recited poetry to you. _Twice_. Honey, this is the closest anyone gets to a romantic date with the likes of me. Maybe I'll send you flowers tomorrow."

"I'd prefer a nice murder case."

"That could be arranged."

"Oh, I have little doubt," murmured Sherlock, wincing as he bent to pick up his pants and trousers off the floor.

"Mmm, yes. I did you very thoroughly. You'll be walking funny for a day or two. It'll pass. Sadly. But I will take pleasure in knowing you'll be able to feel me even when I'm not here."

"I always feel your presence even when you're not nearby."

Jim grinned widely. "I know. Isn't it marvellous? I am going to miss this, Sherlock. This thing we have. Sadly, though, your time is running out. Tick-tock."

Sherlock slipped his feet into his shoes and stood up, fastening his trousers before picking up his shirt and shrugging into it.

Jim snapped his fingers hard and said loudly, "You may take the doctor back to the car now. Try not to damage him this time. Though he has no reason to fight now."

Sherlock looked at Jim sharply. "Damage? What did they do to him?"

Jim shrugged, waving his hand dismissively. "Nothing serious. He's a feisty one, your pet. Had to be subdued a little during shipping. Like you said, he's tough. He can take it."

Sherlock growled a little in the back of his throat, shoving his arm so hard into his jacket that stitches popped.

"Really, Sherlock," Jim chastised. "You shouldn't be so obvious about your weak spot. It's so boringly exploitable."

"Despite how it may appear to your decidedly one-sided point of view, John is far more of a danger to you than a chink in my armour." Sherlock slipped on his coat and looped his scarf around his throat, effectively hiding the bruises Jim had left behind.

"Oh, I'm counting on it," Jim trilled.

"Oh, and Jim?" Sherlock asked mildly.

"Yes, Sherlock, darling."

Sherlock's gaze turned hard. "I admit to nothing. But you certainly admitted something to me."

Jim's jaw clenched for a moment. Though a moment was all Sherlock ever needed to see the truth.

"See you soon, then?" Sherlock said condescendingly.

"Oh, you can count on it," said Jim, his eyes cold and steady. "Sooner than you think." He paused and shrugged. "You know what? I'll admit to one more thing, Sherlock."

"Oh?" Sherlock put on his fake "I'm so fascinated!" face. "Do tell!"

"I don't usually ever fuck anyone twice. Too boring. But you … I think we could have a lot more fun. No kidnapping this time. You come to me of your own free will."

Sherlock let out a snort of laughter. "You honestly think I would do that?"

Jim shrugged, eyes widening. "Anything is possible for the men who don't fit in, Sherlock. And your time is running low. Think about it." He held up his pinkie finger and thumb to the side of his head like a telephone. "Call me!" he mouthed dramatically.

Sherlock said nothing and whirled about to rap sharply on the door. "I believe it's time for you to let me out," he said fiercely. The door opened and the guard made visual contact with Jim, who nodded in the affirmative, before ushering Sherlock out.

Jim sighed softly and reached for another cigarette. Indeed, the chances of Sherlock and he having another "date" were slim, but he knew once an idea nestled itself into Sherlock's marvellous brain, it took a lot to banish it. He would wait and see. For as long as he could. He didn't have the time to set up another ruse such as this one. Mentally, he circled a date on the calendar. He had plans to visit the Tower of London. After that, nothing would be the same ever again. That was comforting, at least. Jim couldn't stand it when things stayed the same.

He lit up and exhaled, murmuring to himself the final beats of the poem, "'He's a rolling stone, and it's bred in the bone. He's a man who won't fit in.'"


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: This is one of the trickiest stories I've ever had to navigate. I hope I haven't offended anyone. Sexual assault is a very serious thing and I'm not trying to make light of it in any way or be disrespectful. Sherlock and Moriarty have an extremely complicated relationship, which is why I see this as dub-con as opposed to non-con, and Sherlock's reaction is not going to be entirely "normal." Ahh, anyway, I hope this is okay. Reviews are much appreciated because I am flailing a bit here.**

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><p>Upon arriving at Baker Street, Sherlock was manhandled out of the car. "Mind the coat, please!" he huffed as the cuffs and blindfold were removed and he was unceremoniously shoved onto the sidewalk before the vehicle took off down the street, tires squealing.<p>

Sherlock let out a small sigh and straightened his clothes before opening the door. The sense of urgency came upon him immediately. John. He needed to find John.

"John!" he called as he flew up the stairs, two at a time as usual.

But then he felt a very unusual pain in his arse that slowed his steps and he clung to the banister for a moment, taking a breath, then continuing up at a more measured pace.

"John! Answer me! Are you there!" The lack of response sent a rush of adrenaline through Sherlock's body. If Moriarty had reneged and refused to release John, there would be hell to pay.

The adrenaline was swamped by a tidal wave of relief-induced endorphins when he saw John sitting in his chair. God, he wasn't used to feeling this much. It had been an exhausting day for that and Sherlock was feeling quite overstimulated and needed to retreat into himself for a while to recover, but not yet. First, John.

The doctor had his head in his hands, seemingly oblivious to Sherlock's presence. Sherlock observed a bottle of disinfectant, a tube of antibiotic cream, and gauze bandages and it appeared that John had begun to tend to his chafed and bleeding wrists, but had become distraught or distracted in the process.

"John," Sherlock said quietly, crossing the room swiftly and kneeling before his friend. He touched his knee gently and John's eyes flew open, his body jerking into awareness.

"Sherlock!"

"John, are you all right?" Sherlock got a first look at John's swelling black eye and then reached up to examine him further, but John grabbed the lapels of his coat and pulled Sherlock in close.

"I didn't know if they were bringing you back or not," John's eyes flashed and his voice was low and fierce. "Whether he was just going to keep you or kill you or god knows what … Didn't know if I should call Lestrade or, god forbid, Mycroft. I've been going out of my mind, Sherlock."

"It's all right, John. I'm here. I'm all right."

John looked at him incredulously. "Sherlock! You are not all right. You were sexually assaulted by a madman. And he made me … he made me …"

"I am sorry you had to hear all that," said Sherlock softly, reaching up to gently pry John's fingers off his coat, his long fingers cradling John's hands so he could inspect his wrists. "Deeply sorry. Part of Moriarty's game."

John attempted to extricate his hands, but Sherlock kept a gentle but firm hold on him. He picked up the cotton and began to carefully swab at the angry, broken, delicate skin on John's wrists. He'd never really gotten to touch John like this before. It was very interesting. Already, his brain was processing and cross-referencing these sensations with the experiences he had absorbed earlier in the day while trapped in the bedroom with Moriarty.

John hissed at the sting of the disinfectant. "Sherlock, stop. We need to get you to the hospital."

"Physician, heal thyself," Sherlock murmured, keeping a hold on John and continuing to tend to his wounds. "We don't want infection to set in, yes? And I don't want to go to the hospital."

John's voice was firm. "Sherlock, you were raped. You need to be examined. You need to have a blood test immediately. This is not negotiable."

"John, you heard what went on in that bedroom. Surely you understand it wasn't as black-and-white as all that," Sherlock said softly, keeping his eyes on John's hands. Now he was applying a thin layer of the antibiotic cream around the circumference of John's wrists, his fingertips dragging tenderly over the damaged flesh. He could read John's time in Afghanistan from the pad of his thumb and the third knuckle on his left hand.

"You're not telling me that you consented. Because I know you didn't."

"True. But I surrendered. Moriarty could have brutalized me. He could have done anything to me and I would have let him …"

"Because of me," said John miserably.

Sherlock looked up sharply. "Yes, of course. You're upset about that."

"Of course I am!" John exclaimed. "You went through all that because I wasn't able to fight off his goons."

Sherlock unwrapped the roll of bandage. "John, if Moriarty decides he wants you, he will take you and there really isn't anything to be done about it. And if our positions were reversed, would you not do what I did in order to keep me alive?"

"Of course," John said, indignant. "How can you even ask me —"

"I'm not trying to test your principles," said Sherlock. "Merely stating fact. So you can stop self-flagellating over the fact that you were unable to stop a chain of events entirely out of your control. Just as I was unable to stop. As I was saying, though Moriarty could have used pain to get me to surrender, but that wasn't the game. He used pleasure instead. He wanted to set my body and my brain at war and in the end it was easier to let my body win."

"So you enjoyed it," John murmured, holding still now and allowing Sherlock to bandage his wrists.

Sherlock shrugged. "On a base, primal level, yes. You heard me. The sounds I was making. You know he brought me to orgasm. Intensely so. I'd never experienced anything like that before."

"I thought you weren't interested in that sort of thing."

"I wasn't," said Sherlock. "But I may have to reconsider my stance on sexual activity. Though I would prefer a different partner in the future." He carefully fastened the bandages. "People are going to think you tried to slit your wrists as a result of living with me. Anderson will have a field day."

"A different partner?" John repeated, ignoring Sherlock's quip entirely.

Sherlock looked up at John. "You helped, you know."

"I don't understand."

Sherlock's eye flicked away for a moment and then returned to John's. "I … thought of you while it was happening."

"Sherlock …" John whispered.

"He had me on my front and I couldn't see his face. Pretending it was you made it easier. Hurt less. Felt good, even. I think eventually he realized that and turned me over so I had to look at his face."

John swallowed hard.

"It's true what he said — Moriarty — isn't it? About you … and me …"

John took a shaky breath. "Sherlock, I …"

"I wish it could have been you, as well. For my first time. But there's nothing that can be done about that. But please, John. Don't make me go to the hospital. I will agree to a blood test, but I've had quite enough of being poked and prodded and touched today. I just want to take a shower and be alone for a while. I have an overwhelming amount of data to process. And you probably want to think about the things I've just said." Sherlock looked at John imploringly.

John nodded, dazed. "All right, Sherlock, all right. If that's how you want it. But I don't care what that insane tosser told you about how 'clean' he is — you are coming to the clinic tomorrow and I am testing you for everything. Doctor's orders."

Sherlock nodded with a ghost of a smile. "Yes, doctor." He stood up and shrugged out of his coat before heading toward the bathroom. He could feel Moriarty all over him. Remembering every place he'd been licked by the madman's clever tongue. "And put some ice on that shiner," he called out. "You're far too asymmetrical right now. Throws the eye off."

* * *

><p>In the bathroom, Sherlock quickly stripped off his clothes. He looked down and was astonished to find he was still wearing Jim's silk tie around his neck. His breath caught and he quickly loosened it and tugged it off before tossing it in the corner with the rest of his clothes. How on earth had he failed to notice he was still wearing it?<p>

He was unsure of what he was feeling at the moment. Logically, he should feel violated and repelled, but there was nothing logical about what had happened to him with Moriarty … Jim. There was a bit of that. His body felt sticky and when his clothes came off he was aware of the smell of sweat and semen and he could feel the residue of both on his skin, not to mention dried lubricant and saliva. That made his stomach turn a little and he was glad to get under the spray and wash the physical remnants away. Much to John's chagrin. But the thought of going to the hospital to let nurses take pictures of his bruises and extract semen from his rectum — horrifying. And for what purpose? Pressing rape charges? Jim knew Sherlock better than that. That wasn't part of the game. No, this little diversion was for Jim's own amusement and to temporarily confuse Sherlock while he prepared the next part of his plan.

He worked shampoo through his hair, still thinking. John would likely expect Sherlock to be traumatized by the experience, but Sherlock already knew he wasn't. He was merely curious about what had occurred and needed time to process it. Jim had touched him like a lover, not an attacker. Sherlock concurred that it was infinitely more satisfying to procure submission through pleasure rather than pain. It was easy to inflict pain on the unwilling. Much more challenging to bring them pleasure. Definitely not boring.

He rinsed the soap off his skin and the shampoo from his hair and turned the shower off. His mouth tasted like Jim and cigarettes. He brushed his teeth, which helped a little, but the flavour lingered. He retreated to his bedroom and shut the door, dropping his towel on the floor and sliding his naked body in between the sheets. He lay on his back, fingers steepled under his chin in his usual pose for deep thought, but he ended up falling deeply asleep almost immediately. He didn't even stir when John tapped quietly on the door and stepped inside to check on him. John stood over Sherlock for several minutes, as if standing guard, before silently retreating and closing the door before returning to his own room.

* * *

><p>It had been nearly two weeks since the incident with Moriarty. Sherlock awoke suddenly in the middle of the night. His dreams had been vivid and erotic and he was hard. This had been happening with increasing frequency. When he was able to immerse himself in a case, it was easier to ignore, but Sherlock was sleeping now to attempt to recharge after staying away for the past forty-eight hours on a case, which he'd just solved. But his dreams left him aching and aroused and he cursed Jim silently. <em>What have you done to me?<em>

Sherlock and John had not spoken of what had been discussed when Sherlock had knelt at John's feet and tenderly bandaged his wrists. Sherlock had made a couple of halting attempts, but had been quickly shut down by John, who insisted it was too soon and Sherlock needed to recover. He persisted in the idea that Sherlock was emotionally traumatized. He even suggest Sherlock go see his therapist, Ella.

Sherlock wasn't certain if John legitimately felt this way or if perhaps he was having difficulty confronting his own feelings. At any rate, Sherlock was tired of waiting to find out. He sat up and swung his long legs over the side of the bed. He opened a drawer and thumbed through the neatly folded boxer shorts. The black silk? They looked flattering against his pale skin, but the thought of the soft silk brushing against his erection was too much to bear. He settled for soft, purple cotton ones instead. Approaching John entirely naked would probably terrify him, but Sherlock wanted his intentions to be known immediately.

He quietly opened John's bedroom door. John was curled up on his side, breathing deeply, clad in his customary worn long-sleeved cotton T-shirt and pyjama bottoms. Sherlock put a knee up on the bed and touched John's shoulder gently. "John," he whispered. "John … wake up …"

John awoke, started, and he flailed for a few disoriented moments before coming to his senses. "Sherlock? What the bloody hell are you doing? Go back to bed!" He blinked, his eyes focusing, and seeing that Sherlock was nearly naked save for a pair of shorts clinging to his slender hips. "Sherlock … what you —"

His question was interrupted by the gentle press of Sherlock's lips against his own. John flinched and attempted to move away, but Sherlock was insistent, his soft, full lips moving against John's until the doctor succumbed with a quiet moan, parting his lips and allowing Sherlock to lick inside.

"Sherlock …" he whispered helplessly between kisses.

"Please, John," Sherlock whispered back. "Please, I need it … I need you …" He pressed his body up against John's and even through the blankets the doctor could feel Sherlock's hardness. _I know you need me_ seemed to be the unspoken addition.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Sorry for the delay. I wanted to get this up sooner, but I changed my mind a dozen times about what direction I wanted this chapter to go. Or more like, I needed to write and fail a few times before the chapter told me which way it wanted to go. Thanks for your patience and for reading and reviewing!**

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><p>John melted into the kisses, but his brain was struggling. There was something he couldn't stop thinking about and soon he was pushing Sherlock away. "No, no, Sherlock. Stop … <em>stop<em>."

He could feel the force of Sherlock's gaze in the dark: indignant, confused, and wounded. He was panting softly with need. "Why, John? What's wrong?"

"This. This is wrong," John said. He could still taste Sherlock on his lips and god knows there had been times where he'd wished the man would offer himself to John the way he was now, but something was wrong. "We've been living together for ages now and you've never shown one iota of romantic interest in me. Completely unaware of my interest in you. Then, one day, Moriarty spirits us away and clearly opened your eyes to the world of sex and you're in my bed. You are in my bed because of Moriarty. It's insane, Sherlock."

"Why does it matter how I came to be here? All that should matter is that I am here."

"I don't think you really want me," said John softly.

"Don't be absurd. Of course I do." Sherlock snatched John's hand and presses it against his hard cock. "Does that feel like I don't want you?"

John blushed and pulled his hand away. "I found it, you know. The day it happened. You left all of your clothes in the bathroom."

"Found what?" Sherlock was petulant. He wasn't used to not getting his way and he'd been so incredibly certain that John would accept his advances.

"Moriarty's tie. You kept it. You still have it, as a matter of fact. It's part of your sock index now. Doesn't take a genius to deduce some pretty telling facts from this information."

Sherlock flinched minutely and stared down at his hands. "Go on. Share your conclusions."

John took a deep breath. "He did something to you. Moriarty. Opened you up. Got inside your head. You desire him, but you don't want to admit it, so instead you came to me."

A pained expression flickered briefly across Sherlock's features, but he quickly banished it and turned is face to stone. He stood up, feeling ridiculous and ashamed. Shame at being rejected. And shame because it was possible that John was right.

"I'm sorry I bothered you," he said tightly, and quickly left the room, ignoring John's calls for him to stay and talk things out more thoroughly.

Sherlock returned to his bedroom and paced the floor. Questions whirled around his head and his body still demanded completion. It felt like clutter was building up in his head and soon a match would be tossed and the whole thing would go up in flames.

There was only one way to find out.

Sherlock picked up his phone and sent out a text.

_I need to see you. SH_

Moments later, his phone beeped.

_I've been waiting. Will send a car in 10. xoxo M_

Sherlock nodded, then quickly busied himself getting dressed. Opening his sock drawer, he paused and withdrew the silk tie. It was wrinkled and bore some semen stains. Sherlock remembered the force of his orgasm and feeling the hot ejaculate shooting over his skin and the tie. He shivered and stuffed the tie into his jacket pocket.

His phone beeped again.

_WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT THIS. DID I EVEN GET IT RIGHT?_

He really needed to have a talk with John about texting etiquette. The all-caps missives were driving Sherlock mental.

_I'm going out to find the answer. Don't wait up. SH_

Moments after the text went out, Sherlock heard an exclaimed "No, no, _NO!_" from upstairs and a thump as John's feet hit the floor.

Sherlock swept into the sitting room and shrugged into his coat.

"Sherlock!" John yelled out as he pounded down the stairs. "You are NOT going to see bleeding Moriarty! The man is insane … this is a trap …"

Sherlock hurried down the stairs, calling out over his shoulder. "It's fine, John. I need to do this."

He opened the front door and parked out front was the same car that had taken him to Moriarty on that fateful day. The chauffeur got out and opened the door for him. Sherlock nodded at the man and was about to enter when John threw open the door to the 221B and ran out barefoot in his pyjamas, dressing gown billowing out behind him.

"Christ, at least let me come with you," he pleaded, clutching at Sherlock's arm, his hot breath forming smoky plumes in the cold night air. There was desperation in his eyes and Sherlock actually felt a pang of guilt.

But he shook his head. "No, John," he said softly and far more kindly than was his usual nature, gently extricating himself from the doctor's grasp. "Not this time. I promise you I will return in one piece."

"So I get to lose my mind wondering about you all night? _Again?_" John's jaw set hard. "Wonderful. Has anyone ever told you what a total fucking _tit_ you are?"

"Not recently, no. Now please go back inside before you catch your death." Sherlock made a wan attempt at a smile and closed the door, leaving the doctor fuming on the sidewalk as the vehicle pulled away from the curb.

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><p>Sherlock was taken to a hotel this time and shown to a lavish suite. He removed his coat and sat on a couch in the sitting room. It was a far cry from the secretive country location and sparsely decorated room of their previous rendezvous. Clearly Moriarty … Jim … understood that this was not to be a confrontation. That was still to come.<p>

Nonetheless, he was aware of the bodyguards just outside the door. A gentle reminder for Sherlock to behave himself.

Jim emerged from the next room and Sherlock stood up. As usual, Jim was immaculately attired in suit and tie. His eyes gleamed and he grinned mischievously, pressing his palms together. "Ohhhh, Sherlock," he trilled. "This is _such_ a nice surprise. I didn't think you would ever be able to surprise me. To what do I owe this pleasure? Is the good doctor not putting out?"

Sherlock scowled.

Jim mock-pouted. "Oh, did I hit a sore spot. So sorry. That's okay …" He boldly stepped up close to the detective and slid his hands over Sherlock's shoulders, then leaned in to lick his earlobe, whispering, "I don't mind being second prize. I really don't."

"John doesn't think that you are," murmured Sherlock, shivering in response.

Jim stopped, then chuckled, stepping back just a fraction, his dark, liquid eyes meeting Sherlock's pale blue ones. "Oh. Oh, my. Sherlock … is he _jealous?_"

Sherlock shrugged noncommittally and Jim broken down into a fit of hysterical giggles. "Oh! Oh … that is precious! And so very wonderful." He straightened up, gasping for breath and wiping his eyes. "Oh, truly marvellous, Sherlock. You've really made my night."

"I don't find it very funny, myself," Sherlock growled.

Jim cocked his head, his manner shifting. His moods and delivery changed from moment to moment and Sherlock found it both fascinating and worrisome. "Of course you wouldn't," he said in a lower tone. "Not very funny to admit that I got to you."

Sherlock pressed his lips into a grim line.

Jim nodded toward Sherlock's bulging jacket pocket. "Now what's that? Is that a grenade in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?" He reached out and shoved his hand inside as Sherlock twisted to prevent him, but Jim was too fast and he withdrew the tie.

His face shifted again, this time into the astonished visage he had jokingly demonstrated for Sherlock that night at the pool, only this time it was genuine. And brief because Jim was giggling again. "What have we here? This looks familiar …" he held the soiled tie up and pretended to examine it closely, then he brought it to his nose and sniffed deeply. "Mmm, oh, yes, darling. You were fantastic. I had no idea you kept this little souvenir." He looked up at Sherlock and batted his eyelashes dramatically, slipping into a childish voice, "I didn't know you _cared_."

"Neither did I," said Sherlock quietly. "Though I'm not sure that I do. That's why I'm here."

Jim rolled his eyes. "Oh _god_. So what, you're all confused by these scaaaarry new feelings and you want me to sort it out for you." He threw his arms up into the air, the tie trailing from his fingers as he paced the floor. "My work never ends!"

"I don't know why I kept the sodding tie!" Sherlock said sharply.

Jim turned hard on his heel to look at the sleuth. "Bollocks, Sherlock. You know exactly why you kept it. Stop lying and start saying something intelligent or I will get angry."

Sherlock exhaled noisily through his nose. "It is a souvenir."

"Yes." Jim nodded.

"Because you forced me to feel things I'd never felt before."

"Mmm, wasn't it delicious?"

Sherlock forced out the last sentence from between his teeth. "And I want to feel it again."

"Ding-ding-ding-ding!" Jim mimed ringing a bell. "We have a winner. Very good, Sherlock! And you thought you wanted to feel it with your precious doctor."

"Yes."

Jim came close again and started unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt and Sherlock let him. "But something went wronn-nng," he sing-songed.

"Yes."

"I can only imagine what your addled idea of seduction might be, darling. What did you do? Send him a text?" Jim leaned in and licked across Sherlock's collarbone. "Draft a scientific experiment proposal with a hypothesis centred around shagging? Slip a condom under his teacup?"

Sherlock shuddered, sliding his hands into Jim's jacket and sliding it off his shoulders. "I went into his room tonight and kissed him."

Jim paused and looked up, raising an eyebrow. "Oh? Were you naked?"

"Almost."

Jim giggled softly and pushed Sherlock's jacket off as well, taking the shirt with it. "And he turned you down. Poor little Sherlock. All riled up and nowhere to play. Well …" he trailed off, rubbing his thumbs over Sherlock's nipples, and then sliding his hands down to open his trousers "… you did know of somewhere you could go to play."

Sherlock nodded, his breath growing shaky as Jim slid his hand inside his trousers, cupping his hard length in his palm. "He found the tie. He's suspicious of my motives."

"Mmm, that's a beautiful thing," whispered Jim. He leaned in even closer, murmuring against Sherlock's lips. "Your cock, I mean. Oh, you've gone and made such a mess, Sherlock. But don't worry. Daddy's gonna it make it all better. Just this once. Because playtime is almost over. But you know what you have to do for me right now, don't you?"

Sherlock hesitated, his body taut with tension — torn between pride and physical need.

"Sherlock …" Jim warned in a darker tone.

"Surrender," Sherlock murmured.

"That's right." Jim kissed his neck softly. "Let me take over and all will be well. Just this once more."

"Once more," whispered Sherlock. "Yes, Jim."

Jim claimed Sherlock's mouth in a deep kiss and then took his hand and led him into the bedroom.

* * *

><p>Hours had passed. Sherlock wasn't entirely certain as to how many and he wasn't certain he cared, though he knew he was supposed to. John was waiting for him. Worrying. But it was so hard to stay focused with so little blood in his brain. He was smoking again. Not good? Bit not good. No … bloody <em>fantastic<em>.

Jim was sprawled out next to him on his stomach. Sherlock, on his back, took a moment to appreciate the softly rounded curve of his ass.

He heard a low, throaty chuckle. "My god, darling, haven't I worn you out yet? You are a frisky one." He dragged hard on his own cigarette and exhaled slowly.

Sherlock sighed softly. "No … no … I believe I am spent."

"Thank _Christ_. I was going to have to put a call out for my special toys because … and I can't believe I'm going to say this … but I just can't fuck you anymore right now, Sherlock! I can't!"

Sherlock chuckled softly, raising the cigarette to his lips. "You promised to have me on every surface in this room. You lied."

Jim rolled his eyes. "Forgive me for getting such a huge, well-appointed room. I rather doubt that antique armoire would have survived our thrashings."

Sherlock tapped the ash away in the ashtray resting between them. "You said you were going to fix everything just this once. My problem is only half solved."

Jim groaned. "You know, I should be relishing the fact that you are asking me for help. It's really quite pathetic, you know."

"Piss off."

Jim _tsked_ softly. "You want my help or not?"

"Go on, then."

Jim let out a long-suffering sigh, took a drag, then began to speak. "All right. This is what you do and you do exactly what I tell you to do. It's very simple. First, you're going to finish that fag and go into the bathroom and take a shower so you don't reek of sex when you go home."

"All right."

"Then you go home and you go straight to bed. Lil' doctor-man will want to talk. He'll be all _concerned_ and 'Oh, Sherlock, what did the bad, bad Moriarty do to you?'" Jim's voice squeaked as he did a terribly unflattering and inaccurate imitation of an agitated John Watson. "But you don't do it. You tell him you need to think. You need to be alone. Whatever it is you tell him when you want him to sod off without hurting his feelings and having to apologize for it later. Regular people are so _touchy_, aren't they?"

"Indeed," said Sherlock dryly. "And then …?"

Jim stubbed out the cigarette. "Next morning, you bring him a cuppa. And look real cute doing it."

"But I never make the tea."

Jim rolled his eyes again. "_Duh._ He'll be suspicious, but curious. Continue to look adorable. You're good at that."

"I am?"

"Oh, please, Sherlock. Don't be so thick. Now, this is the hard part. Tell him you're sorry."

"Well … I am."

Jim looked at him a mixture of pity and disgust. "Really? _Ew._ Living with him is really dulling your edge, my dear."

Sherlock shrugged and stubbed out his own cigarette — in the ashtray this time.

Jim sighed. "Fine, whatever. I think you can figure the rest out, smarty-pants. He wants you and all you have to do is convince him you're all sorted out. Make sure you put the ball in his court. You pounced the poor sod in your pants last time. Let him come to you this time."

Sherlock nodded, absorbing and analyzing the instructions and finding them acceptable.

"There's just the one last tricky bit."

Sherlock sighed. "I have to lie."

"Of course you have to lie. No one ever asks me for help because they want to tell the truth. You can have all you want with the lovely doc as long as you don't tell him that we fucked all night and you begged me for more. You'll note I was considerate enough not to leave bruises or scratches on you this time."

"I wasn't quite as considerate."

Jim looked down to admire the marks he was able to see — bruises on his hipbone, scratches on his arm. "These? Oh, my darling, these are souvenirs. And I'm keeping that come-stained tie, if you don't mind. You don't need it anymore."

Sherlock nodded and sat up, stretching carefully before getting up and moving toward the bathroom. He didn't have to explain to Jim that while technically he should feel bad about lying to John, in actuality it was something Sherlock did quite routinely. All for John's protection, of course. This really wasn't any different.

He heard a huffy sigh and then Jim yelled, "YOU'RE WELCOME, you ungrateful little shite. I've killed people who've shown me more respect than you."

"I am not '_people_," Sherlock said haughtily before shutting the bathroom door behind him.

* * *

><p>When Sherlock emerged from the bathroom a short while later, Jim was only half-dressed, having only put his trousers back on. He was standing barefoot, drinking from a glass of rich, red wine, his hair mussed, fixing his gaze — his dark, sloe-eyed gaze, satiated in a way Sherlock had never seen before — on Sherlock's naked form as he went to fetch his clothes, which were strewn in a trail leading to the bed.<p>

"Ugh, put some clothes on before I decide to ravish you again," Jim muttered, waving his hand vaguely in Sherlock's direction. His tone was more serious than not.

Sherlock smirked slightly, depositing his clothes on the bed and beginning to dress. His skin was still damp and slightly flushed from the hot water. He'd used the blow dryer attached to the bathroom wall to take most of the wetness out of his hair, but it still clung damply to the back of his neck.

Jim cocked his head, looking more closely, then rolled his eyes. "Oh for god's sake, Sherlock. What did you do to your hair?"

"What? I dried it. John will find it odd if I return with soaking wet hair."

"I assume you don't normally use a blow dryer?"

"Whatever for? Waste of time and energy. I have better things to do with my time."

Jim let out an agonized sigh and put down his wineglass before heading for the bathroom. "Of _course_ your hair just dries naturally that way in those angelic curls. Of fucking _course_. Beauty is wasted on you, Sherlock."

Sherlock shrugged into his shirt and began to button it. "I have no idea what you are talking about."

Jim returned with a plastic tube in his hand. "Sit down."

"Why?"

"Sit." Jim's tone left no room for dissent.

Sherlock scowled and sat on the edge of the mattress.

Jim climbed up on the bed and knelt behind Sherlock, squeezing some of the hair product into his hand. "God, you're such a boy. You dress like such a dandy that I'm surprised you don't know that you can't just blow-dry curly hair with one of those dreadful hotel dryers and expect to look normal. You look like you've been electrocuted. Doc's going to think you fell on the Tube tracks."

"Oh, please," Sherlock snorted. "Don't exaggerate."

Jim gently pushed his hands through Sherlock's hair, smoothing it down and shaping the curls with his fingertips. "I've worn a thousand disguises, darling. You pick up tricks along the way. Besides, you knew from the first moment you saw me that I don't go _anywhere_ without product in my hair." He inspected his handiwork, then shoved Sherlock off the bed and in the direction of a nearby mirror on the wall. "Take a look."

Sherlock stumbled to his feet and looked in the mirror. His expression shifted to one of grudging agreement. "That does look much better."

Jim flashed his Cheshire-cat grin. "As if there was any doubt."

Sherlock sat in a nearby chair to put on his socks and shoes. "Should I be expecting the car, or am I to find my own way home?"

Jim shifted off the bed to retrieve his glass of wine. "Take the car," he droned, taking a long sip, savouring the flavour on his tongue before swallowing. "Last nice thing I'm going to do for you, Sherlock. It's all going to get quite nasty quite soon."

"So you've been saying."

Jim grinned again, swirling the liquid in the glass, watching it catch the light. "No less true than it was before." He looked at Sherlock with mock sadness. "So you better enjoy your time with the doctor while you still can."

Sherlock slipped on his jacket, followed by his coat. He noted that the tie was left behind with Jim's things and he intended for it to stay there.

Jim approached and dramatically showed Sherlock to the door, gesturing the way with his hand. "Please, sir, after you."

Sherlock nodded. "Talk to you soon, then."

Jim nodded solemnly. "Soon enough." He paused for a long moment and looked almost regretful. "Oh, Sherlock. The world could have been ours. Wrong time. Wrong place. It's a pity, really." Then he leaned in suddenly and captured Sherlock's mouth in a long, goodbye kiss, letting the other man taste the wine off his lips and tongue.

Sherlock was left slightly breathless when the kiss broke.

Jim placed his hand on the door handle. "Oh, and one more thing," he said, voice teasing. "I lied about one _teensy_ thing." He held up his thumb and forefinger half an inch apart.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

Jim's voice dropped, serene and deadly in tone. "This isn't the last time you're going to surrender to me, Sherlock. There is one. Last. Time. But it will be very different from this."

Sherlock pressed his lips together, his jaw set like stone.

Jim opened the door and all but pushed Sherlock out. "Give my best to Mycroft! Tell ol' Fatty he needs to try a new diet!"

Sherlock's head whipped around in alarm. "Mycroft? But how —"

"Ciao, bella!" Jim called and slammed the door in the detective's face.

* * *

><p>Sherlock texted John as the car delivered him back to Baker Street.<p>

_On my way home. You can stop worrying now. SH_

He received nothing in return. Not that he expected to. John was not the kind to text when he was livid.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Final chapter! Thanks for your patience recently. Life got really busy and then I caught the flu. I did write some of this when I was still running a fever, so forgive any initial inaccuracies ;) And thanks in general to all those who have been following the story. It was really meant to be a two- to three-part scene and grew bigger than that. I blame it on the Moriarty muse — he wouldn't settle for just a guest shot, haha! Also, I've had to fudge the timeline a little bit to make the Johnlock scene make sense (i.e., weeks instead of days after Sherlock's last encounter with Jim). I'm usually tidier than that, but this story was more organic and less planned than the ones I usually write, so I went back and made a few tweaks to chapter 8 to make the timeline flow better.**

* * *

><p>Upon arriving at Baker Street, Sherlock exited the car without a word to Moriarty's driver and quickly made his way upstairs. John was waiting for him in the sitting room, still barefoot in his pyjamas and dressing mouth, his lips pressed tightly together, chest heaving with a combination of relief and outrage.<p>

"Thank you, Sherlock," he spat the words out like bullets, "for giving me permission to stop worrying. I was getting pretty sick of it after doing nothing but for HOURS!"

Sherlock took off his coat, not saying a word, but keeping his eyes fixed on John. His poor, suffering John. If Moriarty was true to his word — and he would be — there was more suffering to come, no doubt.

"Do I even want to know what all this is about?" John asked, frustrated. "One minute you're trying to seduce me and the next you're running off to see a man who assaulted you. A man who has promised to kill you. For reasons entirely unknown to me."

Sherlock remained silent, but kept his eyes trained on John, holding the doctor's gaze. His eyes were so different from Jim's — warm and full of pain and concern. He stepped closer and John fell silent, confused, but transfixed by Sherlock's eyes. Eyes that seemed to change colour with the weather or his mood or the colour of his shirt or god knows why. They were just a part of Sherlock — ever-changing and impossible to figure out.

John let him get close. Sherlock was relieved for that. John was forced to tip his head up slightly to keep eye contact.

Sherlock cradled the back of John's neck in his hand. The doctor shivered at the touch.

"I am sorry," he said softly, and leaned forward to press a kiss to the other man's forehead. John made a soft, breathy sound. Sherlock rested his own forehead against John's for a fleeting moment, then let him go and retreated to his bedroom, shutting the door.

He heard John sigh and mutter to himself, and then the quiet padding of feet back upstairs and his flatmate's own door clicking shut.

* * *

><p>John was restless that night, his sleep light, barely skimming the surface of dreams. Groggy upon waking, he heard movement downstairs. This was normal, as Sherlock did not need the kind of sleep that normal people needed.<p>

John was finishing his shower when he heard a curious sound. At first he thought he'd imagined it, but when he turned the water off, there it was.

The kettle whistling.

Unless Sherlock required boiling water for an experiment (which was entirely possible), there was only one other reason why the kettle would be boiling.

And when John shuffled out of the bathroom in his robe, hair still wet and spiky, there was Sherlock, sweeping gracefully across the floor in his blue silk dressing gown, presenting John with a cup of a tea.

"Good morning, John."

"… morning," John murmured warily, lifting the cup to his lips, then taking it away. "Wait … did you drug this?"

"What?"

"Why are you giving me tea? Is this bloody Baskerville all over again? What did you do to it?"

"It's just tea, John. I heard you get up, so I made tea."

John took a tentative sip of the brew. It was perfect, with just the right amount of milk and no sugar. "I see what you're doing," he muttered, moving to sit at the table, which was also suspiciously free of lab equipment.

"Doing? What am I doing?" Sherlock settled into the chair opposite John, cradling his own cup of tea, managing to look innocent and adorable at the same time.

"You're sucking up. Trying to make me forgive you for last night."

"Is it working?"

John frowned then shrugged, sipping the tea again. "A little bit, maybe. But you are so far from off the hook, Sherlock."

Sherlock wrapped his long fingers around his cup of tea, leaning forward intently. "Like I said last night, I am sorry. I … had much to process. This whole experience since the night with Ji–, Moriarty — has thrown everything off balance quite a bit."

"'Quite a bit'? That's an understatement," John muttered. Then he looked at Sherlock hard. Looked at him in a way in which Sherlock was unaccustomed. Sherlock reckoned perhaps it was the way people felt when he himself looked at them.

"What is it, John?"

"Did you get what you needed?" John asked quietly.

Sherlock frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I'll be blunt, then. Was it good the second time around?"

Sherlock blinked. "I don't know what — _how_, John?" He swallowed and asked again, more quietly. "How did you know?"

"I share a flat with the world's greatest deductive genius. Clearly it's rubbing off on me."

"No, it's not. I'm —"

"Yes, yes, far too clever," John said softly, and looked Sherlock in the eye. "But I'm not stupid, Sherlock. Perhaps this is all new to you, but it's not to me. Any adult person knows what it means when someone takes off in the middle of the night to see someone with whom they've had a sexual tryst and they don't return until the wee hours of the morning, freshly showered, full of secrets and overcompensating, cloying behaviour. Did you really think you could fool me?"

Sherlock stared down at his tea.

"More importantly," said John, "_why_ did you want to fool me? Why should you care what I think? I have no claim over you. I don't like being treated like a jealous wife. I am not your wife, thank Christ, and frankly, you can do whatever the bloody hell you want. You always do. You needed to get off and I wasn't playing along, so you manned up and found the one you really wanted. It figures that the only sexual congress you'd gravitate towards is that with someone who is a complete nutter."

"No," said Sherlock tightly.

"No?"John leaned back and folded his arms over his chest in a defiant gesture.

"No!" said Sherlock. "It's not like that at all. Not really."

"Not really? Please explain, Sherlock. Normally I'm content to steer clear of the contents of your head, but in this case, I'm dead curious as to why I shouldn't punch you in the face right now. And I won't avoid your nose and teeth this time. For being so fucking disrespectful and using my feelings for you against me. You said I was your only friend and you're bloody well not acting like it."

"I wanted you," Sherlock said quietly.

"Bollocks."

"I did — I … I do." Sherlock rested his elbows on the table and buried his hands in his hair as he often did when his thoughts refused to arrange themselves in a logical order. "But yes, I had thought of Ji—, Mor—"

"Just call him Jim," John interrupted impatiently. "Since clearly you two have been on a first-name basis for a while now."

"Jim," Sherlock said between gritted teeth. "You can't argue with the fact that I went through an extremely altering experience with him."

"If that's what you want to call it. Yes."

"He wanted to see me again — if I came of my own accord — and initially I refused. But you're right, I saved the tie. At the time I didn't know why, but now I know it was because it was something tangible from an experience that I could only access through memory. And I was being tormented by carnal feelings I'd previously ignored or repressed. I wanted to share them with you."

"Oh, so it's my fault because I didn't fall into your arms like a besotted damsel. 'Oh, my prince has come at last! Tra-la-la!'" John's mouth twisted as he spat the words out.

"No, NO!" Sherlock banged the table with his fist, causing his tea to slosh. He looked up and his eyes were blazing, but not with anger — just pure emotion. The force of it caused John to sit back even more.

"I don't blame you for reacting the way you did," said Sherlock. "It was entirely correct and I apologize for putting you in that position. I needed — I needed to revisit my experience with Jim to figure out what it was I needed. I even asked him what I did wrong with you."

John laughed; a barking, humourless sound. "Are you winding me up, Sherlock? No, seriously, are you telling me that you _asked Moriarty for romantic advice_. About me?"

"You don't understand," Sherlock muttered.

"No, no," John said, pressing his fingers to his lips and chuckling, shaking his head. "Of course I do. You're mad. Utterly mad. So who better to turn to than a madman? I suppose it was his idea to have you lie about the fact that you two were shagging like rabbits all night?"

Sherlock shrugged minutely, looking down at his hands, so clearly out of his depth with this kind of situation and conversation.

John sighed and leaned his face into his palm. "Sherlock, I don't even know what to do with you. I should walk out of this flat and never come back."

Sherlock looked up in alarm. "John! No, you —"

John raised his other hand, palm out, shaking his head. "But I won't. Believe me, you're not the first person in the world to swan off and shag a completely inappropriate person because you share some kind of fucked-up chemistry with them. Just tell me what you concluded after this romp."

Sherlock was silent for a few moments. "That … that I am yours, John. If you will have me."

John nodded. "Is that all, then?"

Sherlock nodded. "Of course, I know that you will need some time to think about—"

"No, Sherlock," John interrupted him again, standing up from the table. "You don't know. You may know a great many things about everything else, but about this? You don't know _shit_."

Sherlock flinched almost imperceptibly, lowering his gaze.

"Well, it's true. If you're asking flipping James Moriarty for advice, then you are a complete idiot." John's voice was firm, but not angry. "Now, we've talked about this. I don't want you to bring it up again. I don't want you sneaking into my bedroom in your pants. I don't want any of your games, your manipulations, or your bloody omissions. You need to let me think about this in my own way, in my own time. Obviously you've given me a great deal to mull over."

Sherlock nodded. "Jim said …" he started, then trailed off, looking away guiltily.

John put his hands on his hips. "Jim said what, exactly?"

"He said I should put the ball in your court," Sherlock muttered softly.

John snorted. "Blimey. Well, he got one thing right at least. Go figure." He turned on his heel and headed smartly back upstairs, tossing over his shoulder, "He did a great job with your hair, by the way. You should look into using some product, don't you think?" The door to John's room slammed shut.

Sherlock didn't see him again for the rest of the day.

* * *

><p>The next day proceeded normally. And the day after that. And the day after that. Sherlock made tea for John the first day and received a stern look, so he stopped making tea. He went back to forgetting to buy milk and was soon wrapped up in a case. John went to work at the surgery and assisted Sherlock as usual. They fell back into the normal pattern of life.<p>

Only it wasn't entirely normal. Now, when Sherlock had moments to spare, the crushing boredom he felt was replaced by longing for John. The carnal life that Jim had awakened in his formerly complacent body would not be vanquished. It was like Jim had broken him open and he had no outlet for all the strange, foreign feelings and urges spilling out of him.

But he trusted that John would eventually address the situation in some way. He trusted that John would not leave him hanging. He trusted that John would be true to his word and eventually tell Sherlock, one way or another, if Sherlock could be his.

He trusted John. And if this was a test, he intended to pass it. Sherlock was nothing if not stubborn and determined. And he certainly would not lower himself to any kind of base, grotesque behaviour such as seeking out sex on the sly. Though he had resorted to self-pleasure in greater frequency than ever before in his adult life. Late at night in his bedroom when he was certain John was asleep. Pride dictated that John could not know that he was succumbing to the urges while he waited.

Sometimes he thought of Jim … Moriarty. As time passed, he became Moriarty in Sherlock's mind again. The experience they had shared had run its course and Sherlock was focused on the matter at hand — winning John back. If only he'd known before that he'd had John all along. But there was no point in dwelling on that — the fact remained that Sherlock had needed to be broken to realize what was right in front of him. John — gentle, kind, John — was not the sort to break anyone. Only Moriarty had known what to do. Sherlock resented him for being so sure of himself and so successful in his mission. It made him all the more determined to defeat him in their next meeting. Which involved Mycroft somehow. But he'd not gotten far in trying to deduce what the matter might be. He hadn't questioned Mycroft, as he knew that would be about as fruitful as squeezing blood from a stone. But obviously Moriarty had a plan and he would share it with Sherlock when the time was right.

* * *

><p>Sherlock was a light sleeper. His brain never fully turned off, only cycled down a few levels to allow his body to rest itself when necessary. So when his door creaked open, he immediately stirred, looking over in the direction of the sound. He blinked as a warm, soft light illuminated the room.<p>

John. Holding a candle in a silver holder. Wearing nothing but a pair of pyjama bottoms.

"John," Sherlock murmured, confused. "Is something —"

He was interrupted as John placed a finger against his lips, asking for silence. Sherlock nodded faintly and watched, curious, as John stepped farther into the room until he stood next to Sherlock's bed. John carefully set the candleholder down on the bedside table. Sherlock stared up at him. He'd never seen John shirtless before and his eyes roamed over his form, first noting the scars on his shoulder, then the pale golden hair on his chest, which caught the light of the candle. He had a compact build and while he was fit, there was a softness to him that was likely a result of convalescing from his wound and no longer being in active service. He noted the pale nipples, hardened from the cool air in the room, and the trail of slightly darker hair disappearing into his pyjama bottoms. Sherlock drew a breath, immediately feeling his body responding, a warm tightening in his groin.

John stood still, letting Sherlock look at him and smiling faintly when the detective's eyes dropped lower. John hooked his thumbs into the waistband of the cotton trousers and tugged them down.

Sherlock's eyes widened and his breath caught in his throat as John Watson stood before him, completely naked. His cock was not terribly long, but thick and more than half-hard. John reached down and peeled back the covers from Sherlock's bed. Normally, the detective preferred to sleep in the nude, but the chill in the air had compelled him to don his pyjama bottoms and the soft, grey T-shirt he sometimes wore around the flat.

John undressed Sherlock slowly and methodically, tugging the shirt up and over his head and urging him to lift his hips as he eased his trousers off. By the time John slipped into Sherlock's bed, easing down on top of him and settling his weight between Sherlock's legs, the detective's breathing was quick and he was faintly trembling.

"You said you were mine if I would have you," John murmured softly, brushing a few curls away from Sherlock's forehead.

Sherlock nodded mutely, unable to speak.

"You are mine," John whispered. "And I will have you."

John kissed Sherlock then, and the sleuth whimpered audibly with need and with utter relief. John stroked Sherlock's hair and simply kissed him for a long time: something Sherlock hadn't really experienced before. He and Jim had kissed infrequently, and even then it was more of an expression of power and felt more like bites. John's kisses were different: it was all soft and tender, yet demanding and all-encompassing. Sherlock could think of nothing else when John kissed him that way. He wrapped his arms around John, feeling the heat growing between their bodies. John. His John. Warm and naked against him, his erection burning against Sherlock's stomach. And he was hard, too. So hard. John stroked Sherlock's curls off his forehead and looked down at him; his eyes were warm and kind, but there was a sharp gleam of hunger there, too.

"Will you let me, Sherlock?" he murmured. "Will you …?"

He didn't need to finish asking the question, because Sherlock was nodding and pulling John closer and already it was different because he'd been asked permission and it made the giving over of his body an easier and more meaningful gesture.

And at that moment John's mouth and hands were on Sherlock's torso and it felt like John already knew just where to lick and kiss and touch him, reducing Sherlock to a shivering mass of desire in no time at all. He moved with a kind of confidence and assuredness that made Sherlock content to let the doctor lead the way. His back arched and he moaned helplessly as John's lips wrapped around an erect nipple at the same moment his hand slipped between Sherlock's legs and took his cock in hand.

"Beautiful. You are so beautiful," John groaned, moving back up to claim Sherlock mouth's hungrily again. They arched up against one another and Sherlock was consumed by a growing warmth that was inflaming every synapse and nerve ending. He wanted. He wanted John. More than anything he'd ever wanted before. He whimpered John's name desperately and the doctor just seemed to recognize the edge in his voice, because soon he was fumbling in the bedside drawer. "God, Sherlock, I really hope you have some … ah, good …" He pulled out a bottle of lubricant.

"How did you know that I—"

"Please, Sherlock." John grinned, flipping open the cap on the bottle. "It's a small flat and the walls are thin. Don't think I haven't heard what you've been getting up on your own here in the last few weeks. He stroked the pads of two fingers around Sherlock's entrance and the other man moaned, too caught up to even get embarrassed.

"I liked hearing it," John whispered, gently slipping one finger inside Sherlock and smiling when the other man whimpered softly. "Sounds like that. Hearing you pleasure yourself, getting to know your own body at last. Figuring out the things you like. I want to do the things you like. Do you like this?" He pushed in a little deeper and crooked his finger carefully to find Sherlock's prostate.

Sherlock groaned. "Yes, John. I do."

"Has anyone taken you in their mouth before?"

Sherlock's breathed hitched. "N-n-no …"

By "anyone," John obviously meant Jim, but Sherlock understood if John didn't want to say the man's name aloud at this time. And oral sex wasn't something Jim had demanded, surprisingly enough. And when Sherlock had gone back to Jim he hadn't thought to ask for it.

But when John shifted down, still knuckle-deep inside him and closed his warm, wet mouth around Sherlock's erection, he let out a groaning cry and immediately wondered why he hadn't asked for it, but god, it hardly mattered now because he had it and he had it with John and _god_, it was glorious.

"John," he gasped. "Oh god …" His hand unconsciously found its way to John's head, his fingers burying themselves in his friend's short, sandy hair and tugging at it, his hips twitching and back arching as John worked him slowly with his mouth, learning Sherlock with lips and tongue while his fingers moved inside, stroking Sherlock and coaxing the ring of muscle to relax. And when Sherlock's grip tightened enough in John's hair to cause pain and John felt the other man's muscles tense in anticipation of orgasm, he pulled off and pulled out, causing Sherlock to groan in disappointment, but John pulled him close and kissed his lips tenderly, his hands still touching and stroking Sherlock — just in non-erogenous zones this time, though Sherlock was starting to question if any part of his body wasn't eroticized when John was touching it.

"Shhh," John whispered, a hint of a smile playing over his features. "Don't want you to get off just yet. I need you to settle a little bit, shhhhh."

And he stroked Sherlock's hair and kissed him deeply and Sherlock allowed himself to be lost in the sensation: warm, soft lips and tongue and John's hands mapping his body. Making it his. And he settled, his need no less than before, but no longer in danger of coming with a misplaced touch.

Then John pulled back and Sherlock made an unhappy, impatient sound and John chuckled faintly. "Blimey, I should have known you'd be just as demanding in bed as you are outside of it. Hang on a moment, yeah?" Sherlock heard the bottle of lubricant click open again and this time he was quick to take it from John.

"Sherlock? What are you doing. I need that … oh …" His words trailed off as Sherlock wrapped a slick hand around John's cock and began to stroke him slowly.

"Yes, you do need that," Sherlock murmured softly.

John looked at him with hazy eyes and leaned down to kiss Sherlock, his hips lazily rolling into Sherlock's grip, his prick growing harder until Sherlock let out a hungry growl, his hand guiding John down as he lifted his own legs and they both moaned helplessly as John slowly sank inside, John holding Sherlock's gaze the whole while. The eye contact provided a curious sensation for Sherlock: an intensity he'd never known before when it came to this act.

"Are you all right? Does this feel all right?" John whispered, fighting to keep his voice steady.

"Yes, John," Sherlock murmured. "Yes, it's all right. All of it."

"Good. Lift your legs a little, wrap them around me loosely, just like that. Feel that?"

"Oh … oh, god."

John smiled. "Yeah. It's good. It's fantastic." He kissed Sherlock deeply and began to move. And Sherlock began to move and the he wasn't sure who was leading the way or if anyone was, but he and John were simply moving together. John's lips on his lips and his neck and shoulders and their hands were everywhere and he felt completely consumed and overwhelmed and possessed by everything that was John.

The flickering candlelight cast shadows over John's face and Sherlock was deeply aroused by the innate power and strength he could feel in John's body as the he moved against Sherlock, wringing soft cries and moans from Sherlock's lips. Then John slipped one hand behind Sherlock's neck, his grip tightening there and he was moving harder and faster and Sherlock was urging him on, groaning John's name, snapping his hips up to meet each deep, hard thrust.

Sherlock shuddered when he felt John's hand close around him, stroking him in time.

"J-J-John," he stammered, panting.

"It's all right, Sherlock." John kissed his lips. "You can let go whenever you're ready …"

Sherlock gazed up at his lover, latching on to the warmth and security in his eyes. There had been none of that in Jim's black, soulless orbs. But then Jim had been urging Sherlock on to finish himself off. Sherlock had assumed it had been because it was part of Sherlock's humiliation and Jim got off on seeing Sherlock touch himself for Jim's amusement, but now he realized it was also because Jim simply couldn't be arsed to make the effort to help him along. Why would he?

But now John was buried so deeply inside him, and his hand was stroking expertly over Sherlock's cock and when his orgasm hit, it took Sherlock utterly by surprise and he cried out, clinging to John as his body shook and shuddered, his cock shooting hard over John's fingers and his stomach

John groaned. "Sherlock, oh my fucking god …" he trailed off as his hand slipped away, wet and sticky, and he rode Sherlock hard and deep, letting out an explosive groan when he came a minute or so later. Sherlock moaned softly, holding John close, fascinated by the sight, sound, and feel of the other man coming apart in his arms.

And then, a few moments later, all was still.

"John?" Sherlock asked very quietly.

No response right away except for shaky breathing. Then, "Yes, Sherlock?"

Sherlock blinked, tightening his arms around John a little more. "If this is a dream, then I want you to know right now that I wish it wasn't. That I want … wanted … this very much."

"It's not a dream, Sherlock," John murmured, nuzzling behind Sherlock's ear. "I woke you up, remember? And you are well stuck with me now."

"That's … very good," said Sherlock quietly, his voice hitching a little. "This was … different. It was quite … extraordinary."

John raised his head to look at Sherlock, smiling softly. "Anyone can fuck," he said gently. "Anyone at all. But it takes a hell of a lot more to be able to make love. And that's what you and I just did. That's what separates us from the beasts. And a person like Moriarty … he's not capable of experiencing that kind of intimacy. He can't even hope to comprehend it. And that, Sherlock," John's voice also hitched, "is what separates you from him."

Sherlock nodded solemnly, then buried his face in John's neck, pulling him in close.

"I'm not like him," Sherlock mumbled; then a bit more fiercely, "I'm _not._"

"I know, Sherlock, I know," John soothed, stroking Sherlock's curls and kissing his cheek. "You're safe now."

Sherlock lowered his head a little to nuzzle at John's scar tissue, learning its texture with his lips. "Yes," he murmured, then added, far more quietly, "for now."

John, still muzzy-headed after his orgasm and suddenly distracted by the interestingly pleasurable sensation of Sherlock's mouth against his scars, was too distracted to hear the second thing Sherlock said and Sherlock decided that it was for the best. He'd been told to enjoy his doctor while he could and that was precisely what Sherlock intended to do. The next move belonged to Jim and all Sherlock could do was wait for it. The only thing he was certain of was that Jim would not win this game. Not now. Not ever.


End file.
